Lord of the Zombies
by Spamberguesa
Summary: Middle-Earth is ravaged by a continent-wide storm, which leaves the living dead in its wake. Thranduil's halls become destination number one for all who survive, whether the Elves like it or not. But Galadriel and Elrond know that it will be far from over even when they reach safety: whatever caused the storm, and the rise of the dead, was strong enough to topple Sauron himself.
1. Storm and Deadfall

Because somebody had to do it. Exactly what it says on the tin: Middle-Earth is ravaged by a continent-wide storm, which leaves the living dead in its wake. Mirkwood and the Wood-Elves' fortress become destination number one for all who survive, whether the Elves like it or not. But Galadriel and Elrond know that it will be far from over even when they reach safety: whatever caused the storm, and the rise of the dead, was strong enough to topple Sauron himself.

In other words, Middle-Earth is screwed.

* * *

Where it came from, even the Lady Galadriel did not know. With all their foresight, none of the Elves saw the doom of Middle-Earth until it was upon them.

It began as a storm, but a storm the like of which none living had ever seen. Lightning that blinded many who dared look to the sky, thunder so deep it shook the foundations of the Misty Mountains, and torrential rains that flooded entire valleys. It spread from Forodwaith to Harad, from the western shores to Rhûn, leaving not an inch of land untouched. Those who survived counted themselves fortunate, wholly unaware that that was only the beginning.

* * *

Elrond might not have foreseen it, but he was no fool. As soon as the waterfalls along edges of Imladris began to swell, he ordered his people to pack all they could carry, and load the horses with all they could not. Though the rains had not yet reached the valley, all could hear their approach, nearly as loud as the thunder itself. The very air crackled with a power entirely unknown to him, but while he might not know what caused it, he did know what would happen if they did not evacuate the valley: an inversion of the end of Númenor. Instead of a wave bearing down upon the mountains, a sea's worth of water would pour into Imladris and drown all within it.

They had a little time, and they used it well. Elves were not prone to panic, but the unease was palpable, and his people hurried in a way they would have done for nothing else short of a dragon.

He glanced at the sky. Though it was only midmorning, it was nearly dark as nightfall; the clouds that were massed above were a deep bruise-purple, veined every other moment with silver lightning. The wind was oddly hot and even more oddly dry, metallic in a way that stung his nose and left a bitter taste at the back of his throat. Distant though the rain was, it pounded the earth so fiercely he could feel it beneath his feet like a heartbeat. It stirred in him something he had not felt so starkly in three thousand years: fear. Yes, he was afraid, and he felt no shame in admitting it to himself. Only a madman could look upon this without fear, for it was so huge, so unnatural, that even Sauron could not have summoned it. Whatever - whoever - brought this about, was like nothing Middle-Earth had ever before known.

* * *

The power of Nenya ought to have kept Lothlórien safe even from a direct attack by a dragon. Sauron himself should have had difficulty against it, yet this storm rent apart the forest's wards like cobweb.

It had come upon them with such swiftness that many were caught far from shelter. The wind tore apart the edges of the forest before most could flee, a tearing, cracking gale stronger than any hurricane the Bay of Belfalas could produce, great boughs snapping like twigs and hurled up into an aerial dance of golden leaves. The earth groaned as the roots resisted, clinging to the stone beneath until the force of the storm shattered them.

The heart of the forest still stood, shielded by all the magic Galadriel could muster. Even here the tempest raged, the rushing wind sighing through the trees, far too hot to be anything nature-made. Those of her people she could find she bade take shelter at the base of the central Tree, but Galadriel herself stood in the open, watching the purple-yellow clouds spiral above. No matter how much force of will she bent upon it, she could discern nothing of what it really was, of what had caused or created it. The sick bitterness of death wove through it, but there was something else, something so alien she had no reference for it at all. If it was evil, it was of a sort she had never even heard tell of. There was only one thing of which she was certain: this was only the beginning. And she dared not yet imagine what would follow.

* * *

Rohan was no stranger to high winds. Aragorn noted that none seemed wary even when the walls of Meduseld began to groan, though the howling in the eaves made it difficult to hear any speak. Perhaps it was simply joy, the relief of Wormtongue's banishment too great to allow for anything else, but not until the roof shuddered did any of them even glance upward.

Gimli had been doing more than glance - had, in fact, moved to stand with his back against a pillar, his feet and axe planted firmly on the stone floor. Only his eyes betrayed his nervousness, but nervous he was, though he would die before he would admit it. Especially in front of an Elf.

Legolas would not have chided him if he had. He too had gravitated toward a pillar, his eyes darting along the high windows. The strange, coppery scent of the air raised the hair on the back of his neck, heightening has already keen awareness.

"We should find shelter underground," he said quietly, mostly to Aragorn.

"A thing I never thought to hear from an Elf," Gimli grunted, though he wholeheartedly agreed.

"It is only wind, Master Elf," Éomer said. "This hall has withstood worse."

"I doubt that," Gimli muttered, bracing himself against the pillar.

Éomer had no time to take offense. With a bone-shaking groan, the roof shuddered and slipped sideways, dust raining down from the rafters. Somewhere a man cried out, but it was nothing to the screams that rose outside.

Aragorn sprinted to the door, and found himself confronted by chaos. That sudden, violent gust had collapsed two houses, sent another four into a drunken tilt, and ripped the roof off the far stable. Much of the screaming came from those who tried and failed to corral the terrified horses, who bolted in every direction.

Lightning jagged across the sky, so bright he was momentarily blinded, and Legolas had to drag him back from the doorway. No sooner had he done so than the clouds opened up and poured, the rain so dense and heavy they might have stood below a waterfall.

Others came stumbling in after him - men, women carrying children, children carrying food and animals, all while the wind roared ever louder, shaking the very foundations of the hall.

Aragorn plunged out into the maelstrom, with several of Théoden's men behind him. He was soaked to the skin within moments, but the rain abruptly ceased as he grabbed a small boy who had fallen into the mud. The swirling clouds had taken on a greenish tinge, sickly and almost incandescent. In all his travels in all his long life, he had seen nothing like it. Though the rain had been icy, the wind was hot and dry as the deserts of Harad.

A strange, eerie moaning reached his ears, growing louder by the second, and when he turned he found himself faced with something he had only heard tell of.

The whirling clouds were reaching toward the earth like a monstrous finger, purple-black. When it touched the ground, the very stone beneath his feet shuddered, and the child in his arms screamed.

He raced for the stairs again, but was intercepted by Théoden. The old king was milk-pale, and in his eyes there was naked terror.

"Come," he said, shouting to be heard over the storm's roar. "Come! This hall will not protect us."

Gimli came up behind him, and cursed. Legolas and the Lady Éowyn followed, and from there all turned into mayhem. All who had taken refuge now came pouring out into the wind again, staggering under its force and staring in bewildered horror.

Cut into the hall were large cellars, used for storing food in the long cold winters. They were barely large enough to contain the village's population; with the doors shut, there was no room for anyone to sit. They were packed together in total darkness until Gandalf lit his staff, their terror so solid a force that Legolas' head began to ache. The growl of the cyclone was muted by the heavy earth, but the ground still trembled.

"What in Durin's name _is_ this?" Gimli demanded.

"I have only heard tell of it," Théoden said, and his voice did not tremble. "In the time of my grandfather's grandfather, such a thing crossed much of Rohan, and left nothing but ruin in its wake."

Aragorn thought of the other villages, those without cellars in which the people could take refuge. There was no hope for anyone in the path of that thing. Should it pass over Meduseld, there might not be hope for any of them, either.

* * *

Within the forest of Fangorn, things were not yet so dire. The massive, ancient trees creaked and groaned, but their roots accorded Merry and Pippin some shelter.

"Come, little hobbits." Treebeard was a difficult creature to read, but even Pippin could sense his unease. He lifted them both, tucking them close to his sides as he strode toward his home. "Such small folk should not be outside."

Neither was about to protest, for neither relished the thought of being picked up and carried away by the rising wind. Such static filled the air that their hair stood on end, by they didn't feel like laughing at the sight.

"This should not be," Treebeard muttered, mostly to himself. That much was obvious even to the hobbits, who knew nothing of the weather in this part of the world.

"Are we safe here?" Merry asked, fighting an urge to hide beneath the huge table.

"Safe?" Treebeard said. "From the storm, yes. From what comes after, I do not know." He did not elaborate, nor did they ask him to.

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other. Neither liked the sound of that, but there was nothing to be done for it save wait. They wondered about the others, but especially about Frodo and Sam. If they had not found shelter, the entire quest might have been in vain.

* * *

By sheer luck, Frodo and Sam _had_ found shelter, of a sort. They had hidden themselves in a shallow, barren cave, huddled as far back as they could get and hoping the entire hill would not collapse on them.

Frodo was still and silent, his face ashen as he clutched the Ring beneath his shirt. Sam, jittery, spoke enough for both of them.

"He'll have a hard time doing anything in this," he said, his voice cracking. Even now he was too frightened to speak Sauron's name. The stifling heat sent sweat trickling down the back of his neck, but he wasn't going to take a drink until he absolutely had to. "Doubt anybody's moving about much." Terrified though he as, a morbid part of him wanted to scale the slope above and see just what was happening to Mordor.

"Unless he's causing it," Frodo said quietly.

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that," Sam groaned. And yet, baseless though it was, he thought this was none of Sauron's doing. Bone-deep instinct told him that this was bigger than the Dark Lord, bigger than anything in all of Middle-Earth.

He was about to say so when Frodo screamed, a cry of shock as much as pain. His fingers clawed at his shirt, tearing the chain that held the Ring over his head and flinging it away. His neck burned as though a red-hot brand had been set to it, and when his blurred vision found the Ring, he knew why.

It was…melting, losing shape as the gold turned to liquid in the space of a few blinks. It might well have been an ordinary ring dropped in a dwarf's forge, sizzling on the stone like bacon fat. Before his incredulous eyes, the metal began to evaporate, rising in a shimmering steam he would have thought beautiful had he not known its source.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam breathed, his eyes lit with almost childlike hope. "It's a miracle, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo himself was not so sure. The thing had, after all, been crafted by the most powerful, evil being the world had known since Morgoth. All the other might of Middle-Earth together had not been able to unmake it, to so much as dent it. Of one thing only was he certain: anything that could destroy the Ring so easily had to be much, much worse than Sauron.

"We turn back as soon as the storm abates," he said, more firmly than he felt. "This is far beyond us." Terrified though he was -for he was certain this was only the start of something worse - he felt a small, selfish measure of relief at the thought that it was his problem no longer. While trying to find a way to safety was a daunting prospect, it was infinitely preferable to finding a way into Mordor. Let the very powerful and the very wise deal with this: all he wanted was to go home, if he still had a home to go to.

* * *

While the rest of Middle-Earth fought destruction, the kingdoms of Erebor and Mirkwood held little chaos. The halls of King Thranduil could have held the entire population of Mirkwood twice over, and Dale was near enough Erebor to be evacuated easily enough. Only Esgaroth faced true peril. Its hapless folk could do nothing but take what refuge they could find on the shore, as their town was torn apart like a child's toy. Both Erebor and the Wood-Elves' caves were too long a journey to attempt in the storm, especially with the rapid rise of the rivers. They would weather it, or they would die.

All who thought the storm would soon cease were destined to be disappointed - all who survived until the end of it. Four days and three nights it raged over all of Middle-Earth, taking what life it could and leaving unprecedented wreckage in its wake.

What little of Imladris had not flooded was leveled. Buildings and houses that had sat a thousand years were no more, for the rains had brought with them great landslides, and lakes now stood where once there had been streams.

Elrond's people had hidden away in the valley's few caves, watching centuries' worth of their lives drown. There they spent their hot, sticky, miserable days, until even Elrond began to wonder if this was the end of Middle-Earth.

But on the fourth night the wind and rain ceased, the sky clearing in a matter of minutes, leaving the moon and stars to mirror bright in the still waters of the valley. The air was quite suddenly motionless, without so much as a hint of breeze, though still oven-hot and humid.

They emerged from their caverns blinking, and only then did they full realize how complete the devastation had been. The valley of Imladris was no more - there would be no repairs, no rebuilding, for there was nowhere _to_ build, and nothing to do it with.

None spoke as they looked out over the dark water. There was nothing to say, because for many their grief ran too deeply for words.

Misery of a sort Arwen had never known clutched her heart. She had been born in Imladris, and had lived her entire life in it and in Lothlórien, which she hoped had managed to escape this nightmare - hoped, but did not believe it. For she had felt the wrath of the storm, and knew that it would have spread as far as it could.

Would her father turn to Lothlórien, and brave the pass of Caradhras? Or would he lead them to King Thranduil, over the Misty Mountains? They could not linger here. In time their supplies would run out - they were dangerously low already - and there were not enough whole trees to even build shelter for the winter. Though they would starve long before winter came.

"When do we go, Ada?" she asked quietly. Never in her life had she felt so lost.

Elrond laid a hand on her shoulder. He looked old, the light of his eyes dim. "Mirkwood," he said, just as quietly. "If Lothlorien has suffered our fate, Lady Galadriel will make for it as well. Even King Thranduil will not dare refuse her."

Arwen knew little of Thranduil - knew little of the Wood-Elves at all. They held themselves apart from the rest of their kindred, and seldom sent messages save in times of great need. Prince Legolas had certainly seemed quicker to anger than any other Elf she knew, but beyond that he did not appear overly different.

But even if King Thranduil was, her father was right - he could not turn away her grandmother. No matter how unsociable the Elves of Mirkwood might be, they remained Elves, and were bound by ancient custom to aid their kindred.

It would be a long journey, and a perilous one, for if any people could well have survived this disaster, it was the goblins. The passes, treacherous enough to begin with, might well be destroyed, leaving them with no option but to find their own way. They could only hope their supplies would see them through.

* * *

After four days trapped beneath the hill of Meduseld, even Aragorn was beginning to feel weak from thirst and hunger. Night though it was, when he dared open the door he had to shield his eyes. Even the starlight was half-blinding.

What he found when he stepped outside was complete and utter ruin. Not a trace of the village remained: even the foundations of the houses had been ripped from the earth. Parts of the Hall itself still stood, but he hesitated at the thought of entering what was left. It looked as though it might collapse at any moment.

It was as he had feared: absolutely nothing above-ground could have survived. This ragged, half-starved group might well be all that remained of Rohan's entire population.

The air was still hot, and very dry, the acrid scent of dust stinging in his nose. What were they to feed these people? Wells could likely be found, but water was little use to one who was starving.

He turned to Gandalf - Gandalf, who had been completely silent these last days, refusing even to give them light for more than a short while at a time. The wizard looked ancient and haggard, his eyes haunted by what Aragorn suspected was knowledge he had not yet shared. If anyone would know what might have caused this, it was Gandalf, but he remained silent.

The people wept as they emerged into the night, as they realized that all they had ever had was now gone. King Théoden's gave was bleak, and Éomer's disbelieving, but there was something akin to fury in Éowyn's grey eyes. It softened a moment when she looked at her uncle and brother, but hardened again when she turned away.

"Come with me," she said to Aragorn and Legolas, low. Such was the command in her voice that they followed her without question.

"If we are very fortunate, the farther cellars will have survived," she explained quietly. Her gait was somewhat unsteady, but she pressed on nonetheless. "The men of Rohan rarely trouble themselves with our supplies, but the women have already begun preparing for winter. If nothing else, we need not starve right away."

They approached a heavy wooden door, set low in the hill, that looked mostly intact. It took all three of them to budge it open, but when they had, Éowyn gave a sigh of relief. Though it took her a moment to light a candle, she knew already what she would find.

There were shelves of smoked meat, mostly venison and rabbit, alongside rows of wrapped cheeses. Strings of dried fruit, jars of vegetables pickled in salt and brine, and several giant barrels of ale. She was right: they would not starve right away, but neither could they linger.

They brought out several bundles of the meat, enough to dull the survivors' hunger, if not sate it. They found Théoden and Éomer organizing a party to scout for anything that might be found to shore up the remains of the Hall. Théoden did not want his people to sleep in the dirt, not after all they had already endured.

The people accepted the meat with an almost pathetic gratitude, savoring it. A little of their gloom lifted, and some of the weight seemed to left from Théoden's shoulders.

"We cannot stay here," Legolas said. "We should make for my father's realm. He can grant us shelter and safety."

Gimli scowled, glowering at the Elf through his eyebrows. His father had never forgotten his imprisonment at the hands of Thranduil, and had never hesitated to tell Gimli of it, either. But Mirkwood was near enough Erebor that he need not tarry there long.

"He is right," Gandalf said. He had driven his staff deep into the ground, but he looked up as he spoke. "The Woodland Realm might well be the only sanctuary we have left."

"Gondor is nearer," Éomer countered. The people of Rohan distrusted the Elves, and he knew he was not the only one who did not want to go anywhere near a whole realm of them. "We should make for Minas Tirith."

"Minas Tirith may no longer stand," Legolas pointed out. "And if it does, they may not have anything to spare for us. My father will give us aid."

The thought of Minas Tirith destroyed weighed heavily on Aragorn's heart, but Legolas was right. He could not yet go to the White City, not until he had seen these people to safety.

"And what of the rest of my people?" Théoden asked, though Aragorn could see in his eyes he already knew the answer.

"The rest of your people must wait," Gandalf said gently. "We cannot search for them now. We have nowhere near enough supplies." He drew his staff from the ground. "If you will bring buckets, we do, however, have water. Your wells at least have not failed you."

The water they drew up was muddy, but Gandalf easily rendered it pure. The people drank until they could drink no more, and then, as none had properly slept before the storm, didn't bother waiting for the Hall to be secured. The earth had been so disturbed that it was quite soft enough to sleep on.

At length, only Gandalf and Legolas remained awake, keeping watch under the stars.

"Your father will not be happy about this," Gandalf said, puffing on his pipe - said it in Elvish, in came someone should stir enough to listen.

"He does not have to like it," Legolas returned. "He will not turn them away. He has grown insular, perhaps, but he is not so bitter toward other races as he once was. Not even Dwarves." The Battle of Five Armies had done much to soften the King's views - on many things. "What I fear is that not all these people will reach my father's halls. The very old, and the very young." Men were a hardier race than he had previously credited, but only in their prime. It was a very long journey to the Woodland Realm, and there were surely no horses to be found in this wasteland.

"We must do all we can, and hope for the best. We can do nothing more."

* * *

The destruction of Lothlórien was not so thorough as that of Imladris, but it was bad enough. By the end of the storm's first day, Galadriel had realized there would be no surviving the winter. Like Elrond, she knew they must make for Thranduil's realm. And, like Elrond and Mithrandir, she knew Thranduil would not be pleased to see them.

Her people were hushed as they salvaged what they could. Such was the waning power of Nenya, that the woods of Lórien would never re cover, and her people knew it. Their millennia-old home was no more, and would never be again.

What none of them knew - what perhaps no one else in all of Middle-Earth knew - was that the storm was indeed only the beginning, a harbinger of horrors yet to come. As yet Galadriel had spoken of it to no one, not even Celeborn, for she wished them to treasure their ignorance while they could. Their grief was more than enough to deal with already. They need not be told what perils lay ahead of them, what would take so many before they reached their journey's end.

The dead were about to rise. And when they did, none in their path would be safe.

* * *

Tauriel was not surprised to find King Thranduil brooding. She could not blame him - his only son was, after all, somewhere out in that storm-blasted world - but it did make her life more difficult.

The Battle of Five Armies had risen her to General, and there were often times she wished it hadn't. She had been _happy_ as a Captain, but now she rarely saw active patrol. To Thranduil, 'general' seemed synonymous with 'advisor', and while she felt honored to be taken so into his confidence, she could not often say her tasks were pleasant.

Like now. She did not need to be told that their realm would, sooner or later, receive refugees from whatever other Elvish lands might have survived. At present they already housed the survivors of Esgaroth, though they were sadly few in number. It was Tauriel who had found them quarters, who had made sure they were taken to what healers they needed. All the while Thranduil brooded, but she was very much afraid he plotted as well.

It was no great secret that their King was not the most stable of beings. He ruled justly and fairly, and always saw to the safety of his people, but he could be so mercurial - and often so sinister - that even many of his advisors were unnerved. Even when his rage ran cold, it was a terrifying force to reckon with.

It wasn't terrifying to Tauriel, though. Whatever the reason, he did not become enraged with her as he did with the others, which unfortunately meant she was often dispatched to give him any ill news. She had learned decades ago to take a full jug of wine with her when she did so, and not reveal the purpose of her errand until he had drunk at least a glassful. She was quite certain he knew what she was doing, but he let her do it nonetheless.

She found him seated in the antechamber of his quarters, pouring over scrolls that looked ancient. On most days he at least had his butler with him, but now he was alone - not a good sign.

"A full bottle, Tauriel?" he asked, not looking up. "You must have ill news indeed."

Tauriel allowed herself a wry, humorless smile as she fetched two goblets. She drank little herself, but kept up the pretense of matching him.

"I do," she said bluntly, filling one goblet and placing it beside the scrolls. The haze of the alcohol stung her sinuses even from a distance. "Though it is not all ill."

"Sit," he commanded, and took a long draw off his wine before looking at her. "And drink."

She did, as always taking only a small sip. "The floodwaters are already receding," she said, "and the scouts report an entire nest of spiders dead, likely by lightning." The spiders had only recently appeared in the forest again, to the unease of everyone.

He drew another large draught of wine, and once again she sipped. Over the long years, the had honed this into almost a ritual. "We also received our first tidings from Ere bor. Few in Dale perished, and they saved many supplies. When the shore is passable, they will take in the survivors of Esgaroth."

Thranduil drained his glass. "And?"

Tauriel braced herself, though she was certain her news would be of little surprise. "The first of King Dain's ravens have returned. Though they flew a hundred leagues in each direction, they have found not a single stretch of land untouched by the storm."

The King was silent. His eyes were weary, but they were also haunted, and Tauriel could not fathom why. At length, however, he smiled, grim and twisted.

"Galadriel and Elrond have long thought me mad," he said softly, "for dwelling in caves as we do. Now they have no choice but to come to me, to this last bastion of Elvendom in Middle-Earth. If this storm was everywhere as it was here, Imladris and Lothlórien will be no more. You must prepare to receive permanent guests."

It was his tone more than his words that filled Tauriel with dread. She feared their kin would find him no gracious host, and it would fall to her to soothe all offense that might be taken. She prayed Prince Legolas would return before Lady Galadriel or Lord Elrond arrived, or her life would swiftly become unendurable.

She found Thranduil looking at her. He must have read her thoughts on her face, for his smile grew less bitter. "I know that I ask much of you, Tauriel," he said, almost gently, "but it is only because I trust you."

"I am honored by that, my lord," she said, quite truthfully, "but I would ask that you grant me aid, before the others arrive." By which she meant, I am no diplomat. She had no idea how the hierarchy of Lórien and Imladris fell, who to house where and what honors were to be accorded to whom. She knew next to nothing about either realm at all.

Once again, Thranduil seemed almost to read her mind, but as always seemed to happen of late, twisted her request. "I will answer what questions you may have," he said. "Tulusdir will take on what of your normal duties you cannot perform."

Tauriel fought an urge to grind her teeth. Before this disaster, Thranduil had occasionally (and mystifyingly) set her to odd tasks for which she was entirely unsuited. Whether it was a test, or simply the King's warped sense of humor, she did not know, but it certainly tried her patience. Which, she suspected, was entirely the point.

She drained her goblet rather than retort, the Dorwinion soothing her hackles. "As you wish, my lord. May I take my leave of you?"

"You may." He did not need to ask her to leave the wine.

Once out of earshot, Tauriel sighed. She automatically stepped aside to allow the King's butler to pass, but he paused, and gave her a questioning look.

"Did your report go ill?" he asked, and though he looked harried, there was sympathy in his eyes.

She sighed again. "Not ill, no. But the King has assigned me yet another task best suited to anyone but myself. At times I long for the simplicity of being Captain. The King is ever hard to read, but I wonder if he assigns these duties in hope that I will fail. I knew little of the nobility of our people, and I do not care to learn."

Now Galion eyed her very strangely. "You truly do not know?" he asked. "He does not wish you to fail, Tauriel. I may say no more now, but he will tell you himself, in time."

With that cryptic comment, he left her. Tauriel could only shake her head, and wonder where to start.

* * *

Five days into their journey, the people of Imladris had yet to see any sign of life.

Elrond had hoped to supplement their meager rations by hunting, but not an animal was to be seen. What tree still stood were green with life, but not even mice stirred among them.

As he had feared, the road into the mountains had entirely washed away. They were forced to break their own trail, creeping onward each day under the strong, hot sun. As a consequence, it took them that long even to reach the old pass.

They had spoken little since the storm ceased, too mazed by shock and grief to bother with words. So it gave them all a start when Lindir cried out.

Elrond paused, and looked where Lindir pointed. The track they beat ran along what had once been a narrow crevasse, now filled with water and a tangle of dying fir trees. On the other side, out in full daylight, stood a goblin.

A single goblin ought not to have alarmed any of them, but there was about this one an air of _wrongness_ that grated on Elrond's every sense. It stood still and loose-limbed, staring dumbly, its unblinking eyes clouded milky-white. One of its arms was broken, a shard of yellowish bone sticking straight from its elbow, yet the creature betrayed no sign of pain.

That flat, vacant stare found Elrond, and it froze his very marrow. What he beheld might have a goblin's shape, but it was a goblin no longer. He looked upon a dead thing, but it was no wight. Never in all the ages of his life had he seen such a thing, and it struck him with such horror that he was arrested where he stood, unable for a moment to move.

Lindir nocked an arrow and let fly, the singing of the bowstring loud in the silence. His aim was true: he hit the goblin square in the chest, yet it did not fall. It did not so much as flinch - if the arrow caused it any pain, it gave no sign. Nor did it take its eyes off Elrond.

Another crept up beside it, and another still, lumbering like drunken beasts, until a small herd of goblin-things stood massed on the opposite bank. All were like the first, vacant and dead and _wrong_, and yet behind that vacancy there was something else - a formless malice, a mindless and unholy hunger.

His mind raced. There was nowhere behind them the things could cross, not without swimming - a thing he doubted them capable of. He knew not what lay ahead, however, and if his party were to run afoul of the creatures on this side, there would be little opportunity to flee.

"Save your arrows," he ordered, mastering his dread with difficulty. "But keep your swords ready."

Beside him, Arwen was tense. Her face was composed, but Elrond knew his daughter - she shared his strange, inexplicable terror.

"What are they, Ada?" she whispered, her knuckles white where she gripped the hilt of her sword.

"I do not know," he murmured back, "but I fear we will find out."

Their going was slow, and made ever more unnerving by the growing mass of goblin-things across the water. It was all they could do to keep the horses from bolting. The poor beasts' eyes were wild, sweat foaming at their sides. The silent, formless horror of the Elves grew, until it was almost a relief when they came face-to-face with one of the creatures.

Almost. As Lord of Imladris and head of the line, it fell to Elrond to kill the thing that came lumbering out of the wreck of the forest, and while he cleaved its head off with ease, even the feel of his blade passing through that dead flesh sent a shudder up his arms. Goblin blood was always black, but what came out of the hewn stump of its neck was not blood - it was a thick, foul, noxious ooze, that smelled as though it had begun rotting long before it was spilled.

But even that was not the worst of it. The head, which had rolled and fetched up against a rock near his boot, still watched him, and its jaws clacked, as though it wished to bite something.

And here Elrond - Elrond, who had faced Sauron and come out unscathed, who had led his people in the charge of the Last Alliance - recoiled. Pure instinct led him to drive his blade into one of the head's eyes, whereupon it went still, truly dead at last.

No more yet followed, but the creatures on the opposite bank let out a sound that would stay with him until the end of his days. It was a moan - a mournful, unnatural davening, low and horrible and _hungry_. They reached out, with no change in expression on their slack faces, as though beckoning the living to come to them.

"Move on," Elrond ordered, turning away. To his deep unease, the moaning grew and spread, echoing through what remained of the silent forest, and he knew now why they had seen no other living thing - nothing that could move would stay in such a place. And he also knew, with unfounded but unshakeable certainty, that all which had not fled had been devoured.

He had to make certain such a fate would not also befall his people. It was a thing that seemed easily accomplished in daylight, but what the night would bring he dared not imagine.

* * *

The refugees from Lothlórien had fared rather better. The lands around their woodland realm were uninhabited for many leagues: out here there were no dead to rise. They had only to contend with the sweltering sun, with air so harsh and arid it burned the lungs and made every breath a torment.

They too moved in silence. A few of the younger Elves had tried singing to pass the time, but their voices fell flat and heavy against the crushing stillness around them. Though the sky was clear, the air was as oppressive as that of a coming storm - something they all prayed would not come to pass.

They followed the line of the Anduin northward. The river was swollen and muddy, and even the sigh of the rushing water was muted. Dol Guldur was now safely behind them: mercifully it had been deserted, and even its ruins were now destroyed. It would be another day yet ere they reached the start of the Elven road into Mirkwood, and it was that which worried Galadriel.

She had no way of knowing what lurked in there still, what might have survived the storm - and what might not have. In the days since Dol Guldur was abandoned, hardy Men and their families had made their home in the forest's outer marches with King Thranduil's blessing. Any that perished in the storm would have risen by then, and her people would have to fight their way through.

Galadriel knew little of the dead: what she had seen in her mirror had been vague. She knew that they would kill and eat any living thing they caught, and that their bite would be the death of those who received it, but she feared there was more to it than that.

And there was Nenya. She had spoken of the ring's change to no one, not even Celeborn, but it was unmistakable: the ring's power was failing. There could be but one cause - the destruction of the One, the fulfillment of the Fellowship's quest. The Ruling Ring could be no more, yet it brought her no comfort.

It was too soon for the Ringbearer to have reached Mordor, let alone Orodruin. Whatever outside source had created the storm had also destroyed the Ring - and possibly taken all of Mordor with it. There was no power in Middle-Earth that would be capable of such a feat, and none that she knew outside of it.

No, she was not comforted at all.


	2. The Rising

Second verse, same as the first, a little bit louder and a little bit worse.

I've taken some liberties with regard to the size of Mirkwood. In the book of _The Hobbit_, the Dwarves and Bilbo wander the forest for what sounds like several weeks, while in the movie it seems like no more than a day or so. I've decided it's somewhere in between, and that it's only two or three days' journey from the edge to Thranduil's halls.

Absolutely nobody is happy in this chapter, but that should come as no surprise. Things will get better for them all, I promise.

* * *

The survivors of Rohan were grim.

There were scarcely a hundred of them, including Théoden's guard and the four remaining members of the Fellowship. All bore what of the food they could carry, a task made difficult by a lack of things to carry it _with_. They had nothing save the clothes on their backs, but at least the heat let them comfortably use extra articles of clothing to make rough packs.

Yes, they were grim, but they had a hardiness of mind that made up for what many now lacked in physical strength. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli shared what _lembas_ they had left, but it did not go far to feeding so many people. They ate each morning and evening, but they dared not eat very much - only the children had their fill. There were few enough of them, and none wanted to see them starve.

To everyone's relief, the storm had not destroyed the plains entirely. Grass still grew in the land that had not been in the cyclone's path, and while it was useless to them, it was a reminder that not all was dead. Perhaps, if they were very fortunate, they might even find more survivors.

They had moved so slowly that they were only now in sight of Fangorn. All save Legolas and Gandalf balked at the thought of going too near the forest - even Aragorn was uneasy to do so, with so many people - but they needed water, and there were streams that led out of the trees. As Gandalf said, he could not conjure water out of thin air, and he held no fear of the forest. Still, they approached it with caution.

Afterward, the remaining Fellowship was grateful they did. For they found at the stream that which had led them on their chase across half of Rohan.

Merry and Pippin stared at them in open astonishment. They looked as though they had fared much better than these last days than the refugees of Rohan: their clothes and faces were clean, their faces not pinched by hunger. All save Gandalf wondered just how they had managed it.

"_You_," Gimli growled. He was torn between joy and anger, uncertain if he wanted to embrace them or kick them.

Gandalf simply leaned on his staff and shook his head. He could not say he was surprised they had survived, though even he wondered how. His spirits lifted a little when the hobbits scrambled up the banks and launched themselves at their former companions, laughing and embracing them.

The other refugees, too weary to spare much curiosity yet, spread out along the bank and gratefully drank their fill. Though the evening was yet early, they could go no further today. The men and women separated, each group seeking an area where they could wash away the sweat and grit of the last days. Only those of the Fellowship waited, too anxious to hear the hobbits' tale. They sat by the stream while the sun set, staining the trees and grass red-gold.

"Trust hobbits to befriend the Ents," Gandalf said, when they had finished. It was fortunate for them that Treebeard had been the one to find them, or their end might have been both swift and nasty.

"But what have you been _eating_ in there?" Gimli demanded.

"Eating? Nothing," Pippin said. "The Ents have a water that's better than food. I've even grown!" He leapt to his feet and stood proudly, looking so pleased with himself that even Gimli had to smile.

"Not so much as me," Merry put in, hopping up himself.

Aragorn only smiled - a small, faint smile, but a smile nonetheless. Whatever they had endured at the hands of the orcs, they had come out of it largely unscathed, in mind as well as body. After the misery of the last days, it lifted his heart to see them.

"We can ask Treebeard for some water," Pippin said, sobering. "You look like you need it. The storm wasn't so bad in the forest, but we saw what it did on the plains."

"Our band might well be all that remains of the kingdom of Rohan," Aragorn said quietly. "We would welcome whatever aid the Ents might offer."

"We make for my father's realm," Legolas added. "It might be best if you joined us."

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other. They had heard Bilbo's tales of his journey through Mirkwood, and neither were eager to go there themselves. The thought was even more unnerving with the darkness closing in around them, the sun dying a bloody death in the west.

"You would be safe there," Gandalf told them. "The forest is not as it was in Bilbo's time. There is peril to be found, but not near King Thranduil's halls."

"We want - well, we'd really like to go home," Merry said, his voice small.

"That may not be possible for some while yet," Gandalf said gently. "The mountains will be all but impassable. For now you would be safest with us."

The hobbits traded another unhappy look. Gandalf was surely right, but that did not mean they liked it.

They both jumped when Legolas' head snapped up, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring. "Something is wrong," he said, leaping to his feet.

Aragorn rose as well, uneasy. Though he could not ear or hear or smell anything out of the ordinary, Legolas was right: something was indeed very wrong. It was still faint to his senses, but he trusted Legolas. Some alien peril approached, subtle but horrible.

A shrill scream sounded from someplace upstream: a woman's scream, at first terrified and then filled with agony. It was taken up by dozens of others, male and female, to be joined a moment later by battle-cries.

Aragorn was off as fast as his feet could carry him, sword drawn, racing through the gathering dusk. Behind him, Gandalf's staff lit like a white torch, casting a silvery moon-glow onto a scene straight out of nightmare.

Chaos had overtaken the refugees, but it took half a second to see it was not of their own making. It looked as though another band of survivors had found them, but these people - these creatures - were not survivors of anything. The light of Gandalf's staff fell on faces death-pale, streaked with dirt and gore, on filmy, milky blind eyes that nevertheless hungered.

Dozens of their own women and children, all damp, some only half-dressed, fled down the stream toward them. One woman had a bloody gouge on her shoulder, and Legolas at least could clearly see an imprint of teeth at the wound's jagged edge.

"Into the forest, all of you!" Gandalf cried. In his eyes was a kind of dread Legolas had never before seen, and it filled him with unaccustomed fear. Anything that could frighten the wizard must be evil beyond measure.

Theoden, his knights, and the Lady Éowyn had at least kept the attacking…creatures…from moving any further down the stream. They were all of them weakened by hunger, but they fought valiantly. While their attackers bore no weapons, and moved as though they were both drunk and underwater, they far outnumbered the defenders. More and more appeared out of the growing dark, two hundred strong at least, and there was about them something so horrifyingly unnatural that for a moment even Aragorn's heart quailed.

It was Gimli who broke the paralysis, wading into the fray with axes ready. _He_ did not care what he fought, be it a living foe or some dark abomination.

He came close to gagging with his first blow. What passed for blood in these things was black and viscous and stank of rot, as thought it had been putrefying some days already. Teeth tried to close on his arm, only to break off on his armor with a spine-tingling screech.

And they never cried out, nor did they falter, not even after losing a limb. Cold washed through him when he hewed the legs from one and still it reached for him. These were not wights of any sort he had heard tell of, but wight they must be.

He found himself back-to-back with Lady Éowyn, who he noted fought as well as any dwarf woman, and better than most. Hair damp and arms streaked with gore, she wasted not a movement, weaving and slashing with the grace of a dancer. A fleeting glance at her face told him she was perhaps enjoying this too much, for her expression was one of savage exaltation. It was a little worrying.

The light of Gandalf's staff flared to blinding brilliance, forcing the fighting to a halt as the living cried out and tried to shield their eyes. When their vision cleared, they found their attackers lay dead - truly dead, fallen like marionettes in the sticky puddles of whatever noxious substance had passed for their blood.

Legolas, who had been nearest Gandalf, was shocked at how old and weary the wizard looked. His eyes were now haunted as well as horrified, and he leaned upon his staff like an old man.

"More will come," he said, before anyone else could speak. "Into the forest, all of you. We will be safer in Fangorn than on the open plains."

To a man, the Rohirrim blanched. The creatures they had faced had once been Men, and were a thing that could be beaten, if with difficulty. The forest, which had figured in many fireside tales since all were children, was another matter entirely.

"Respect it, and you need not fear it," Gandalf said. "I have walked there often of late. It will give us shelter, and it will not allow those monstrosities entrance."

Still they looked uneasy, but a glance at the dead fortified their resolve. Sooner or later they would need sleep, and none dared do it here.

* * *

Uneasy night fell on the party from Imladris.

They had run afoul of no more goblin-things, but the moaning, once started, had never ceased. It was difficult to credit the creatures with intelligence, but Elrond feared they were waiting for cover of darkness.

His people were weary, but Elves could go long without sleep if they must. They lit no fire for fear of drawing attention from whatever might be out there, but the moon was full, and let them see far in every direction. Only Bilbo, who seemed nigh unflappable, managed to sleep, and he did so deeply and with a serenity that Elrond envied.

The horses had been terrified into exhaustion, and Elrond feared what would happen to them if they remained too long in this ruined, dying forest. He had seen too many times what became of beasts too long near evil, and they were surrounded by it now.

Arwen sat beside him, silent, watching the moon sail across the sky. There was still not a breath of win, and even now the heat remained oppressive, though mercifully the moaning had stopped. She was still numb with the shock over the loss of her home, but she had grown curious about the Woodland Realm.

"Why do we speak so seldom with our woodland kin?" she asked quietly, needing to break the silence.

Elrond sighed. "King Thranduil is a fair and just ruler to his people, but he has little use for all outside his realm. He will grant us aid, but I am sure he will not welcome us over-much. He can be abrupt and often rude when he feels the need, but he will not turn us away. At heart he remains good."

_That_ did not sound like a thing to look forward to, but then, as she reminded herself, Prince Legolas seemed normal enough. Somewhat haughty, yes, but he was a prince, and still very young by the reckoning of their people. He would outgrow that, given time. Arwen was certain he would return to his home - and with luck, bring his companions with him. She had little fear for Aragorn, but she would have him near her nonetheless. Only then could she begin to rest easy.

As Galadriel had feared, the outer marches of Mirkwood had fared as badly in the storm as everywhere else she had seen. And, as she had also feared, many of its inhabitants had perished.

By stroke of good fortune, Beorn had joined them. His home had been destroyed, but he and many of his creatures survived. He too was determined to reach King Thranduil, for he too knew what it was they would face in the outside world.

He refused to enter the wood at night, a decision with which Galadriel agreed. They and her people passed the night around many campfires at the forest's edge, watchful and wary, for she had told them what peril awaited.

It had been many long years since she carried a sword, but she bore one now. She was unsurprised when Beorn refused all weapons, but it made her uneasy.

"Whatever we face, do not let any of them bite you," she warned. "In a sense they are like wights: they will turn us like themselves, if given the chance."

Beorn was quiet. In the flickering firelight he looked more animal than man, his huge, hairy hands rested on his knees. "What are they?"

"I know not," she said, grave. "I do not think there are any in Middle-Earth who do." She had told none save Celeborn what she had felt of Mordor's destruction - nor would she, until she had met with Lord Elrond and King Thranduil. Elrond, who also possessed a Ring, would surely have felt it already.

"Why do you go to the forest, and not the western shore?" Beorn asked.

It was Celeborn who answered. "We would never reach it, even had we the supplies. Many of the lands to the west were once well-populated, and we have not the strength to fight all of them. The Greenwood may well be the only safe place left in this part of Middle-Earth."

A cry went up at the edge of the encampment, and the drawing of many swords. Even here they had not yet found safety.

With each passing day, Tauriel wished more and more she were patrolling the forest. She would take an entire nest of spiders over her current tasks.

The King's halls were vast, but they looked to the arrival of two other realms' worth of people. One of the facts she had wrangled from Thranduil were the populations of Lórien and Imladris, so far as he knew them, and the numbers made her quail. Even if many had died, she would still be faced with over a thousand people.

The caverns had been built to hold their own realm's entire population in times of siege, and could do so comfortably. The more common folk of Imladris and Lórien could be housed easily enough, but their nobility and advisors were another story. The halls already gave refuge to several hundred surviving woodsman, who would have to be shifted when the foreign nobility arrived. And how was she to _feed_ them?

"That is my task, not yours," Thranduil said, when she asked him that question in utter despair. Far back in his eyes was a dancing amusement that only irked her further, as well as confused her. In such grave times, how could be amused by anything?

Still despairing, she went to Iólel, one of the court ladies who would both know what she was doing, and would not judge Tauriel because she did not.

"I need a day," Tauriel said. "Just _one day_ where I am allowed to do something I am actually suited for. It seems weeks since I last felt the sun on my face." Too, she wanted to see what had become of the forests she had patrolled for so many years.

Iólel gave her a kind, gently pitying smile. "Go," she said. "I will take on your duties for the day, and say nothing to King Thranduil."

Thanking her profusely, Tauriel all but ran to her quarters to collect her weapons. It was easy enough to join the company that set out into the woods.

What she beheld appalled her. Though the trees nearest the caves were largely intact, the forest showed more (and worse) signs of destruction the further they went. Unusually for the Greenwood, it was sweltering hot, the shade of the uprooted and tilted trees little comfort. The very air smelled of death, and the dryness of it tightened the skin of her face. She kept her knives loose in their hilts, her gaze sharp and wary.

There were no signs of life to be seen, not even the black squirrels which were normally everywhere. It spelled trouble for their food supplies, if there was no game to be found. The silence was eerie, and almost as oppressive as the heat. None in the company spoke, for they knew not what to say.

They marched much of the day, searching for anything that lived apart from themselves, and Tauriel's heart sank. What was truly unnerving was that there was not even a carcass to be found: it was as though everything that had once lived in the woods had vanished.

"We make camp tonight," the captain (who should have been her, Tauriel thought with a mix of nostalgia and irritation) said. "I do not wish to return until we have found something worth finding."

Tauriel's heart sank. A day's absence could be concealed, but Thranduil would surely discover it if she were gone longer than that. While she had ceased to fear his wrath long ago, it was still unpleasant to deal with, and he would have a right to be angry with her, as she had technically left without permission.

But there was nothing for it now, and she could not afford to be distracted by any thoughts of the dressing-down she would inevitably receive. And if they did in fact return with "something worth finding", perhaps it would mitigate some of the King's ire with her.

They marched on until nightfall, which was very dark indeed. Upheaved though the forest was, the trees remained too thick to allow much moonlight to penetrate to the ground.

Though the air remained unpleasantly hot, they nevertheless light watch fires. That they had seen no trace of spiders did not mean there were none out there, and the entire company was already unnerved.

For want of anything better to do, Tauriel sat and sharpened her blades. The captain, Falchon, who had once served under her, sat beside her and did the same.

"I did not think to see you out with us," he said.

"I should not be," she admitted. "I had thought only to escape the irritation of my new duties for the day. If you are offered promotion, do not take it."

Falchon smiled, drawing the whetstone along his knife. "Is your new position truly so onerous?"

Tauriel groaned. "You have no idea. Often I think King Thranduil appointed me only to anger his other advisors. Now he has me arranging accommodation for our expected guests. He believes all the survivors of Lórien and Imladris will descend upon us soon, and for some reason has decided _I_ am best suited to arrange things for them. Thranduil has made it quite evident that he thinks little of his kindred. I wonder if he means to use my ignorance to give them offense that cannot be laid at his feet."

Now Falchon laughed. "Being favored by the King is a double-edged sword, is it not? That cannot be his only reason, but you may be right. I am sure the others will not fault you for it."

Tauriel had no chance to reply, for the sounds of distant battle came suddenly to their ears. As one they leapt to their feet, hastily smothering the fires.

She followed Captain Falchon, taking point on the fore of the company out of sheer habit. They moved as swiftly and silently as they could, making use of what little moonlight there was. Whoever was out there had to be strong, to have already made it so far into the forest, but only the Wood-Elves were truly accustomed to it. Their guests needed all the aid they could give.

The others were themselves Elves, by the sound of it - either their kin from Lórien or Imladris had arrived. Tauriel drew her blades, a familiar and welcome anticipation seizing her. Too long had she languished in the Elvenking's court: this was where she belonged.

That anticipation was soon tinged with dread, however: an alien, baseless dread that took hold of her entire being. It did not slow her, but it set her heart pounding, and raised the hair on the back of her neck. The stench of rot hit her like a solid force, and she wondered fleetingly if they had discovered the fate of the forest's former inhabitants.

They found the battle in a clearing washed with pale moonlight, and what she saw almost halted her. These were her kindred, yes, but what they fought…she did not know what they fought, but it filled her with formless horror.

She forced herself to move, throwing herself into the fight with both blades. What she slashed at looked like one of the Men of the forest, one of the brave souls who had dared make home here after the Shadow left Dol Guldur. But it was a man in shape only - it drew no breath, and when she slashed its throat, what oozed from the wound was not blood.

And it did not die, though her cut was clean and deep. Suddenly her horror did not seem so formless, for still it reached for her, its milky eyes filled with determination.

Both her knives plunged into its chest, one straight into its heart, yet still it clawed for her. For the first time in centuries Tauriel knew real terror, for what but a wight cold take such injury and still stand?

She tore her blades free, but before she could attack again, another Elf came up behind her, a stranger garbed in white beneath his armor. He drove his sword into the thing's eye, and it collapsed when the blade was removed.

"In the head," he said. "Nothing else fells them. Whatever you do, do not let them bite you."

Tauriel nodded, in both acknowledgement and gratitude, and set to. There was no formation to their attackers, no logic nor sense; they did not even bear weapons. Their only advantage lay in numbers, which were truly horrifying: more and more came lurching from the trees, an army's worth of what had once been men, women, and children. It seemed that every mortal who had once dwelt in the wood was now bearing down upon them.

"Fall back!" she cried, a Captain's surety in her voice. "Fall back!" The wreck of the forest would slow the horde, at least, and the rest of Mirkwood's army could slay it. Even with all Lórien's numbers, they stood little chance. There were to many of the things to solely have once been Men, but where the rest might have come from, Tauriel knew not. It mattered little, as it made their situation no less dire.

Her call was taken up by the rest of the company, who did as ordered. They herded the Lórien Elves forward, keeping themselves between the things and their kin, though many did not wish to be herded.

One stood out to Tauriel: a woman without armor, garbed in white, nearly as tall as King Thranduil. She wielded her blade with a grace Tauriel herself could never have matched, her fair face set with a grim determination that was terrifying to look upon. Surely this was Galadriel, Lady of Lórien, and Tauriel had a wild, irreverent moment of wondering how King Thranduil would deal with such an elleth, who had until recently been ruler of her own Realm.

But it lasted only a moment. They had to reach the King's halls before anyone could deal with anyone else, and they were still a full day's march away. Automatically she sent scouts to run ahead, as fast as ever they could, and hoped Falchon would not fault her for it.

* * *

In the forest of Fangorn, things were quiet.

Not silent, for the people wept in the darkness. Too many had been lost, and Gandalf ominously separated those who had been bitten from those who had not. Neither Merry nor Pippin knew why, and they didn't ask.

They sat a little away from the group, awkwardly, not knowing what they could do. Aragorn and Legolas moved among the survivors, treating as best they could those who had been injured but not bitten. It was a difficult task, as they dared light only a small fire, and the shadows pressed in from all directions.

At length, Gimli came and sat with the hobbits. He had washed his axe and armor, and scrubbed the gore from his beard, but he said little.

"Once I feared this forest," he murmured. "Now I fear to leave it."

The thought sat well with neither hobbit. "What happened out there?" Pippin asked.

"I cannot speak of it," Gimli replied, staring into the fire. "Not now, and perhaps not ever. Come with me to Erebor, young hobbits. You will find more welcome with us than with the Elves." He made no mention of how they were to _reach_ Erebor, and Merry and Pippin feared they never would. Not without help.

"Treebeard," Merry muttered. "Treebeard might help us reach the other side of the forest, at leas." What awaited them beyond Fangorn could be worried about later.

"Who is Treebeard?" Gimli asked, squeezing the water from his own beard.

"An Ent. He saved us from the orcs. The Ents don't like strangers in their forest; they might help us just to get us out of here faster," Merry said.

"Or kill us," Gimli snorted.

Pippin shook his head. "They're not like that," he said. "Well, maybe some of them are, but not Treebeard. As long as we don't hurt the forest, he has no reason to hurt us."

"I don't know how we'd find his house again, though," Merry sighed. "It's a long way in, and it would be easy to get lost here."

"We're not going anywhere until daylight," Gimli said firmly. "And not without Gandalf."

"Where _is_ Gandalf?" Merry asked, a little worriedly.

"He does as he must." Legolas had approached them quietly, and sat beside Pippin. The Elf looked weary, but more than that, he looked as though he grieved. "This is not over," he said softly. "He has taken away all who have been bitten, so the others do not see their fate."

"Are they wights?" Merry whispered. The hobbits might not have seen the battle, but they had heard confused snatches of the survivors' conversations.

"Not as I have ever known," Legolas said. "But Gandalf fears the bitten will become like the things we fought."

Neither hobbit had to ask what would have to be done to them. They looked at the huddled mass of survivors, exhausted and pained and mourning, and wondered how they would take the death of yet more of their loved ones.

They both wondered about the Shire, too - wondered and worried. And then there were Frodo and Sam somewhere out in the wilderness: had they even survived the storm? Were they now like whatever had attacked the Rohirrim?

The thought was too horrible to contemplate. Warm though the night was, they shivered.

It was even hotter near the fire, but many sat close anyway, fearful of the dark. Éowyn, ignoring her own unease, had taken two of her uncle's knights to haul water from the stream, so they could once again wash. She had scrubbed her hair and her own clothes as best she could while still wearing them, but the gore had set, and she knew she must not be a reassuring sight.

Nor was there much reassurance to be given. She had seen the wizard's face, when he led the bitten away, and she could guess well enough why. There had been so few of them at the start, and now there would be fewer still.

"We will be safe enough here, my Lady."

She turned to find Aragorn had come near her. He looked as weary and dispirited as she felt. "It is not that which I fear," she said quietly. "How many of my people will live to see the land of this Elven prince? Is all the kingdom of Rohan now filled with those creatures? Too few of us are left who can fight." She sighed. "But perhaps it matters not. We will starve long before we could reach the Woodland Realm."

Aragorn took her hand. Like her own, his was warm and calloused, and his touch was as comforting as anything could be, just then. "It is not yet time for despair. Your people are a hardy folk, even your children. They will endure."

Éowyn gave him a s mall, sad smile. "I wish I had the heart to believe that. Perhaps I will, in daylight."

"Go and rest," he said gently. "You have done more than your share this day."

She went, but she did not rest.

* * *

The goblin-things fell on the refugees from Imladris at dawn.

At least they had waited for the light, but that was small mercy. They came out of the trees by the score, and several of the terrified horses finally bolted, never to be seen again.

The Elves mustered themselves in the pale morning light, and now Elrond bade them let their arrows fly. He dared not stay where they were, for he feared the numbers of the things, so they battled their way through the forest's ruins with what speed they could summon. The felled trees were protection, but they were also a hindrance, for they lay in high deadfalls that shifted treacherously beneath the weight of their foes. Elves were light on their feet, and could scale almost anything, but even they had difficulty in the face of such a ponderous, chaotic charge.

Each time an arrow felled one of the things, another crawled up to take its place, closing in on them before and behind. One by one Elrond heard his people cry out as they were overrun, but no matter how desperately he fought, he could not stem the tide.

They had reached the base of an old landslide, and he ordered all his people to climb it as swift as they could. He would bring half the mountain down on these creatures if he must, but he would not do it until those of his own who remained were out of reach. He had no idea yet now many they had lost, and there was no time now to count.

Up they went, leaping through the golden light of the rising sun, which seemed so macabre when it landed on the nightmare battle in the trees. The Elves swarmed the slide, using its steepness to put their clumsy pursuers behind them. There were too few of them, Elrond thought - perhaps a little over half the number that had set out. Even after the last had scaled the dew-damp rock he waited, hoping more would appear from the forest, but none did. Mercifully, one was carrying Bilbo on his back like a child, the old hobbit clinging like a monkey.

At last he had no choice. The incantation he used was an old one, one he had not spoken in over a thousand years, reaching down into the granite until it reached the bedrock of the mountain beneath. The ground shuddered under his feet, the shock spreading outward and cracking the fallen trees far below.

When the slide loosed itself, it did so with a roar that echoed even off the farthest mountains, a slow-building tumult that crescendoed almost beyond the ultrasonic. It jarred in his chest harder than his own heartbeat, reverberating all through his being, until he thought his very bones might shatter apart with it.

It was long before the echoes died away, and left in their wake the old, oppressive silence. The forest below had been obliterated for almost a solid league, taking their enemy with it - and his own dead. It would be their tomb for all eternity, until they were reborn in Arda.

Arwen stood beside him, and laid a gentle hand on his own arm. "You had to, Ada," she said quietly. She did not try to stir him, not yet. They had a little time to grieve.

The sun rose higher, and the heat soared. It was not long before Elrond urged them on again, up toward the mountain's summit. What they would find on the other side, he did not know. At least they would be closer to Mirkwood, and the only respite they were likely to find.

* * *

Thranduil was at first incensed to find a company of his guard had gone so far - and taken Tauriel with them, no less, without his permission - but that did not stop him mustering his own force, as soon as the first breathless messengers arrived. Whatever he thought of his kin, he could not stay behind and send out others to rescue them.

He held no great anticipation of meeting with the Lady Galadriel, who he too long felt held undue sway over her people. While he would admit it to no one, he envied still her and Elrond, who possessed two of the three Elven-rings where he did not. Even now he resented that Cirdan - Cirdan! - held the third.

But neither Ring had protected their lands from the storm. They came to him because they had no choice, and that soothed his stag thundered into the forest. Fortunately for Tauriel, Iólel had completed her task while she was off on her hunt, so Lady Galadriel could find no fault with _that_ end of his hospitality.

He had brought an entire host with him, some on stags but most on foot. The messengers had assured him such numbers would be needed, and when at last they reached the ongoing battle, he thought they had been right.

Thranduil had faced many a terrible foe - had watched his own father slain in battle - but it all seemed nothing compared to what he now beheld. On the surface it should not have appeared so terrible - at a glance it looked only like Elves fighting Men - but it did not take sight to tell him this was evil of a sort he had never imagined.

With an inward shudder, he charged, his wrath rising red-hot once again. Not at his kin, but at the filth that had dared invade his Realm in such numbers. The sight and sound and stench of them stirred his ire as nothing had done in centuries. Thranduil had for ages now held a vile temper for an Elf, and he loosed it in full.

It was not easy. Even the stags, normally the most fearless of beasts, were skittish and uncertain, goring with their massive antlers whether they were bade to or not. At least the Lórien Elves stayed well back - the last thing he needed was to cause a Kinslaying by _accident._

The Lady Galadriel was easy enough to find, even through the chaos. She fought beside her husband, blade flashing, her arms streaked with viscous black fluid and eyes bright with a light that bordered on unholy. Not far from her was Beorn the Skinchanger, who Thranduil was not surprised had come. And beside him was Tauriel, who would hear the full extent of her King's rage later. Her and Iólel, who should never have allowed her out.

The Lórien Elves blended seamlessly with his own forces, when they arrived. Weary though they must be, they fought valiantly in the blistering heat, through the nauseating stench. Yet even with all their numbers, evening had fallen before the last of the foul creatures were dispatched.

It was a grisly ending. The forest floor was carpeted with bodies, most in pieces. Of their own they had lost too many - a shocking number, given the nature of their attackers. Thranduil had known great evil had befallen Middle-Earth, but he had not foreseen _this._

He dismounted when Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn approached. The sight of them transported Thranduil to the memory of battles long ago, to things he had tried valiantly to forget.

"We are most grateful for your aid," Celeborn said - a trifle stiffly, for he had no more love for his woodland kin than they did for him. Lady Galadriel, however, smiled and took his gory hand.

"We owe your people our lives," she said, and her smile was like the sun as it had been before the storm.

Still, he was tempted to some ill remark, until he saw Tauriel watching him anxiously. She was clearly preparing herself to mitigate whatever damage his sharp tongue might cause.

"You are most welcome," he said, and almost smiled at her palpable relief. "Come. You are weary, and no doubt hungry. Your wounded we will treat in my halls."

He made to offer Galadriel his stag, but she leaned close to him. "I must speak with you of the wounded," she said, low. "All who have been bitten are lost to us, though they do not yet know it."

"There is nothing that may be done for them?" he asked, just as quietly. Ice settled in his veins, for he had seen a number of his host fall prey to the creatures' teeth.

"Nothing." Her blue eyes were fathomless, and filled with pain. "We can end their lives now, or wait until they turn."

"I will not kill my own people in this forest," Thranduil hissed. "How long have they?"

Galadriel's voice was gentle. "A day, at most," she said. "Whatever evil has caused this spreads quickly. If you would have them pass in comfort, we must leave now."

Thranduil's anger rose again, but it was formless anger, at the entire universe. "Take my stag, my Lady," he said, louder. "We will do what we must."

Galadriel did, more for form's sake than anything else. To refuse would be to insult her host.

The Elves both Wood and Lórien had formed up already, carrying those of the wounded who could not walk. To Thranduil's relief Tauriel, though filthy and covered in gore, appeared uninjured.

"I would speak with you, once we reach safety," he said, a sinister undertone in his voice.

Tauriel winced. "I'm sure you will," she said dryly. "I make no apology, my lord. I was far more useful this day out here than I could ever have been in your halls."

She was right, but that in no way mitigated his ire with her. While she may have saved lives, this was the worst possible way to introduce her to outsiders.

The Noldorian Galadriel would surely know her for what she was, and moreover would have little cause to love her. None of the Lórien Elves would, but Galadriel especially might take issue with her. Though Tauriel knew nothing of her heritage, her hair was a dead giveaway to anyone who knew of Fëanor. She was living evidence that Fëanor's lost son had not died without issue.

And indeed, Thranduil caught Galadriel glancing at Tauriel. There was no hostility in her face, however - merely curiosity. No doubt she wondered why he had not slain Tauriel as a child, given his own history with the Fëanorians. Surely she would question him, when she had the chance.

"Are you bitten?" Thranduil asked Tauriel, though he was already sure she was not. The others who had been already looked ill.

"No, my lord. Scratched, but not bitten."

"Good. I shall have need of you, when the injured are tended to."

She cast him a questioning look, but all she said was, "And what of Lord Elrond? Though we slew those creatures, there may well be more. Someone should stay to meet him." She couldn't keep a trace of hope from her voice, and her expression fell visibly at his reply.

"Someone," he said, "but not you. As I have said, I have need of you."

Tauriel bristled, but, mindful of their company, held her tongue.

Galadriel had not seen the inside of the Greenwood in an age, and it grieved her to see what had befallen it. Not just the storm: the forest had clearly been sick for centuries, and she wondered how Thranduil could suffer to live in such a place. He had been very young and stubborn when last she saw him, and though he was no longer young, it seemed the stubbornness remained.

Still, his people were goodly enough, and she spoke no lie when she said they had saved her people's lives. Considering they would dwell together for who knew how long, it was a good start. Yes, they were strange in the eyes of the Lothlórien Elves, but the reverse was surely true as well.

The little Fëanorian had genuinely startled her. Thranduil was peculiar, but Galadriel had not thought him mad. Anyone with eyes could see what she was, yet he seemed to favor her. More than favor her, if Galadriel read the signs aright, though the elleth herself seemed wholly unaware of it.

And, aside from her hair, she also seemed unlike her sires. Quick of temper, yes, but all the Wood-Elves seemed so, Thranduil included. Her own people's exile might prove more interesting than she thought.

Those who survived. Her heart was pained by the thought of what would happen to them - far _too_ many. They knew what fate awaited them, even if their woodland kin did not. And she knew not how many more lay dead, waiting to rise in the forest tomorrow. Thranduil's Fëanorian was right: Elrond would need escort to meet him, if his people were to reach Thranduil's halls alive.

Thranduil's stag snorted. Galadriel had not seen such a creature in centuries, but they were far better suited to this forest than a horse. This forest, so dark and dangerous compared to Lothlórien. She had not yet had time to mourn the loss of her home, and she still did not. Only when her people were safe would she dare grieve. Safe and fed and rested, able to sleep in the knowledge they ran no risk of being killed in the night.

And night was falling fast, when they reached Thranduil's fortress. Four had died of their wounds along the way, though none of them had been bitten. They too would be mourned later.

Once inside the great halls - and they truly were impressive, so much that she must see more of them later - Galadriel paused only long enough to clean the filth from her skin and hair before she went to the houses of healing. They too were impressive: massive in size, their walls carved into the smooth stone with a likeness of the Greenwood as it once was. The air smelled of sweet herbs and wood smoke, offsetting the scent of blood the wounded brought with them.

The healers, a dozen ellyth of various ages, garbed in green, descended upon the injured. Galadriel bade them separate the bitten, and bring them all into another room, out of sight and hearing of the others. They did not need to know what was about to happen to their kindred.

Thranduil followed, grim and silent, his Fëanorian in tow. He must have told her what Galadriel had spoken of to him, because she looked heartsick. Galadriel could understand why: many of those here had come from her company.

"So many served under me, when I was Captain," she said quietly. "What will happen to them? Will they pass into shadow?"

"Not as wights do," Galadriel replied, just as quietly. "The life will drain from them, and they will become like those that bit them."

"We must end their lives, Tauriel," Thranduil murmured. "Before they turn, or after."

"So we are to become kinslayers?" Tauriel whispered, and Galadriel was now sure she would see no irony in her words.

"They are dead already," she said. "What we must do, must be done to keep them from becoming abominations."

"Do they know this?" Tauriel asked. Her face was pale as she looked at the rows of pallid, sweating, breathless Elves.

Galadriel sighed. "My people do, for I warned them of the peril."

"I must tell mine," Thranduil said, his voice heavy. "They must know what they face, and choose whether their lives are to be ended now, or…after."

Galadriel did not envy him his duty. All she herself could do was offer comfort where it was needed, and dread her eventual task. For it was by her or Celeborn's hand that her people must be sent to Valinor: she owed them that. And no matter what she said to Tauriel, it felt like kinslaying.

Some of those who had been bitten earliest were already halfway to turning, their sweat-sheened faces ashen and their breathing labored. When she touched the forehead of one of her warriors, his skin was icy beneath her fingertips.

"End this for me, Lady," he rasped. "Please."

How could she? She had lived alongside him for centuries, had watched him grow from a very small child. How could she take his life, even when he implored it of her? Though she had faced such great evil in her life, she could not do this. She could not take his life, even though it was already doomed.

Unexpectedly, it was Thranduil who came to her aid. "No," he said quietly, and there was an anguish in his blue eyes that made her feel he looked in to some terrible inner hell. "No. You cannot do this to one of your own, any more than I could to mine. Hold his hand, if you will, but let me release him."

Now was not the time to express her gratitude, even had she words for it. Long had she underestimated her estranged kin, this tormented woodland king. His Fëanorian - Tauriel - came up beside him as he drew his knife. She looked nearly as sick as the dying Elf, but her gaze was steady as she gave him silent encouragement.

He was quick about it, and his knife so sharp the Elf likely did not feel a thing. "Turn away, Lady," he said, and Galadriel did, knowing what he must do next.

Together they moved about the room, taking turns at their gruesome task as they were faced with one or another of their people. Though what they gave was mercy, it would haunt Galadriel to the end of her days. She was one of the few now living in Middle-Earth who had fought in the Kinslayings, and this brought back memories of battle and death she had long since buried.

When at long, long last they were finished, Tauriel slipped away, and soon returned with a large jug of Dorwinion wine. The room was still and silent, the only breath now to be heard their own, and it was horrible in a way no words could express. Thranduil downed a draught so swiftly that Galadriel thought he must frequently imbibe. When she sipped at her own goblet, the strength of the drink surprised her, and she did not wonder why Tauriel drank more slowly.

"This is the most evil day I have ever known," he said quietly. "Come. We should not linger. I can stand the blood on my hands no longer." He drained his goblet, looking at Galadriel. The bleakness in his gaze pulled at her soul. "Join me, my Lady, when you have rested. None of us should bear this alone."

It did not take Tauriel long to cleanse herself physically, though she vowed to burn every garment she had worn this day.

She drank steadily all while she bathed, and was very drunk indeed by the time she was dressed again in clean clothes. Thranduil had bade her return to him, and she went, for she could not bear the thought of solitude.

She had held Falchon's hand as he died, bidding him to look at her and not the knife that brought his death. So many of those who died today had served beside her, or under her: she owed it to them to be with them as they passed, but she wondered if it had broken her.

Her vision blurred as she wended her way to the King's quarters, and not just from drink. Many of the Lórien folk roamed the halls, silent and stricken, for they knew what fate had befallen their kin. Never had Tauriel hard the halls so quiet, for the Wood Elves were often a rowdy people, and ever some song or laughter could be heard. Now there were neither, and she wondered if her grief would drive her mad.

Thranduil and the Lady Galadriel were not in the antechamber, but in the King's quarters themselves, seated before a dying fire. Tauriel had never been in here, and doubted many had, but her sorrow was too great for curiosity.

Both Thranduil and Galadriel had bathed and changed as she had, and both looked as grief-riddled as she felt. And Thranduil at least was every bit as drunk as her, though one would have to know him well to know it.

Tauriel took a chair near the fire, and though it was warm, she shivered. "What have we done this day?" she asked softly, staring in bleak despair at the dancing flames.

It was Galadriel who answered. "Only what we must. Remember that all we did was a mercy."

Tauriel looked at her. Though there was starlight in the Lady's deep blue eyes, they shimmered with unshed tears. Tauriel had always thought Thranduil's gaze endless, but the Lady Galadriel's seemed to encompass all of history - and, just now, to hold all the pain of the universe.

Though Tauriel did not often weep, the look in Galadriel's eyes broke her. How could any of them ever be whole again, after that? She did not know about the others, but she was unsure she could ever forgive herself.

"You should not have stayed, Tauriel," Thranduil said, his voice laden with regret. "I should have sent you away."

Anger surged through her, though it could not oust her sorrow. "And leave you to deal with that without me? They were my companions, my lord, my brother-at-arms. I owed it to them, to be there at the last."

She rose unsteadily, and poured herself another full glass of wine. If she were fortunate, it would put her into a sleep without dreams.

"I want to search for Lord Elrond," she said, when she had half drained her goblet. "He knows not what he will face in this forest. Someone should -"

"_Someone_, yes," Thranduil cut in, echoing his words of earlier, "but not _you_."

Tauriel rounded on him, and almost tripped. "Why _not_ me?" she demanded, too drunk and too angry for anything like deference. "I know the first, and I know those creatures. Why must I stay locked in here, when I am of far more use out there?"

Thranduil rose to his feet in one graceful, sinister motion. Standing, he towered over her, but Tauriel refused to be cowed. "Because I will not lose you too!" His voice was like low thunder. "My son is somewhere out there - dead or alive, I know not, and may never know. You say you are needed in the forest, but _I_ need you _here_."

His words so shocked her that she forgot to be angry - and forgot they were not alone. "Why, Thranduil?" she asked quietly, wretchedly. "Why me? You have other advisors, so much wiser than I -"

"I do not want an _advisor_, Tauriel, I want _you_. You will argue with me for hours, yet stand beside me when I must commit the worst of horrors. I may be able to do this without you, but I do not wish to try."

Tauriel had no idea what to say to that. She knew her King favored her, but not to such an extent. Knowing how much he needed her was terrifying.

"Listen to him, Tauriel," Galadriel said, only now reminding Tauriel of her presence. "You who have suffered with us are bound to us now. No more can you be a mere Captain. Thranduil needs you, and not as your King."

She rose, and if she had partaken of much Dorwinion herself, Tauriel would never know it. "I must go now to my people. I thank you, King Thranduil, and you, Tauriel, for all you have done this day."

With that she left them, and Tauriel, intoxicated though she was, was mortified. While she had no doubt Lady Galadriel would speak of what she heard to no one, she had still witnessed some deep confessions.

Tauriel turned back to Thranduil. While she had been his close advisor for some years, she had had no idea how much he relied on her presence as much as her counsel.

"I will stay," she said gently, if warily, "but do not think to send me away from whatever horrible things you must do. I will not leave you to face them alone."

Galadriel's heavy heart lifted a little at the scene she left behind her. Trust Thranduil to lose his heart to a Fëanorian. She had been worried to leave him alone, for while she had Celeborn, Thranduil had no one. Until now.

Still, her heart was heavy enough when she went to her quarters, and to Celeborn. Their rooms were lovely, the stone walls carven in the same manner as all the halls, and here they were veined with silver. A fire burned bright in the grate, the sweet-smelling smoke a welcome relief from the scent of blood and death.

Celeborn had sat up waiting for her, in one of a pair of large, high-backed chairs facing the fireplace. He had tended the conventionally wounded while she did her grisly work. He knew what she had done, and what it had in turn done to her.

He rose, and handed her a goblet filled not with wine, but with cool, sweet water. "You should have let me aid you," he said, as she drank the cool draught. "You should not have borne that alone."

"I was not alone," Galadriel replied. The water dispelled some of the wine's potency, but she did not welcome it. "We need not both have endured it. There may yet come a time when we must, but that time is not now. For now our people need one of us to be untainted by that horror. They need you, Celeborn, for I cannot yet give them what they require."

He led her to one of the chairs, and bade her sit. "We are safe here," he said. "None of that filth will breach Thranduil's halls. Our people may rest easy this night, and sleep without fear."

"I know. That part of our nightmare is over." What more was to come, she did not know, but Celeborn was right. For the first time since this began, they could sleep and know they would not wake to an attack, to teeth in their throats.

"Come," Celeborn said. "Come and rest. I am here with you."

"I cannot," she said. "Not while knowing Elrond remains out there." Though it had been many years since Celebrian had taken ship, Elrond was still wed to her, and still therefore as Galadriel's son. And her granddaughter at least would be with him, even if her grandsons were out somewhere in the wilderness.

"He will come," Celeborn assured her. "He ought not be far behind us, even if he had to blaze a new pass over the mountains. And they will not face what we did, when first we entered the wood."

"Thranduil will send out a company, to be sure they will not. He is not what I expected from our woodland kin. Haughty, yes, and quick of temper, but there is more compassion in him that I would have thought. Our time here will not be ill."

Celeborn laid a hand on her hair. "Then rest now, in that knowledge. Elrond is no fool, and his people are warriors all. Soon they will be safe as we are, and we can begin to look to the future."

Eventually Galadriel did as asked, and if she dreamt, she did not remember it.


	3. The Gathering

In which Mirkwood continues to be invaded, whether it likes it or not. Don't worry, I haven't forgot about Frodo and Sam: you'll see what became of them in chapter four, as well as what's become of Elrond and company. Meanwhile, the survivors must find a way to coexist with one another, without all going insane.

* * *

A stroke of luck had finally befallen the last of the Rohirrim. And, as Merry and Pippin expected, it came from the Ents.

Treebeard's arrival, in the faint, grey hours of the dawn, at first caused mayhem among the terrified men and women. Swords were drawn and arrows nocked, but the people were too weak to make use of them before Gandalf's staff hit the ground with a sound like thunder.

"Put away your weapons," he ordered. "The Ents will not harm you, unless you give them cause."

Slowly, warily, the swords were sheathed. Treebeard's expression, as he surveyed them all, was one the hobbits had come to identify as bemusement.

"You live, _hoom_, still," the Ent said, his words slow and ponderous.

"We do," Gandalf said, unable to keep the fatigue from his voice as he leaned upon his staff. "We would ask your leave to make for the Woodland Realm, but our people are starving, and many injured. They need foot and rest, if they are ever to reach our journey's end."

Yet again, Merry and Pippin were the only ones who could come close to reading Treebeard's expression. He was deliberating, but rather more swiftly than they had yet seen an Ent do.

His bright eyes scanned the refugees. The adults were still wary, and in a few cases hostile, but the children stared at him in open fascination. Their faces were pinched and pale, their eyes huge, but there was no fear in them. After days on end of unrelenting misery, here was a curiosity they were not frightened of.

They gazed long at Treebeard, and he at them, while the sky lightened and the sun pierced golden through the trees. No one spoke, and the hobbits held their breath.

"We will take you, _hoom hoom_, there," the Ent said at last. "It has been an age since I cared to leave this forest, but it feels as if the very face of the world as changed. I would know what new peril might enter my home."

That was quite a reversal from his earlier attitude, from his insistence that the fortunes of the outside world meant nothing to the Ents. Pippin was delighted, but Merry, more thoughtful, was also concerned. For he was certain the Ents would not leave Fangorn if they did not fear what might approach it.

The dead themselves would be of little concern to it. They bore no axes and lit no fire, but the storm that created them - yes. Merry could see why they would worry over that. Another such storm might destroy the forest, and he could well understand the Ents wanting to seek counsel from those who had experienced it from the outside.

"What do you mean, you will take us?" Théoden asked. There was a trace of hope in the sorrow of his voice, though he sounded as though he hardly dared believe their fortunes could have changed.

"_Hoom_, we will carry you. But first, you must drink."

"It's fun," Merry and Pippin assured the children. Though they did not seem to the be ones who needed reassurance: it was the adults who blanched. Gimli in particular was so comically obvious about it that the hobbits almost laughed.

"We would do well to accept their offer," Gandalf said to the refugees. "We can risk no more bites. Those who were bitten yesterday perished in the night."

Théoden winced, almost imperceptibly. He alone of his people had been told what had truly happened to the bitten - what the wizard had been forced to do to them.

"We are grateful for your aid," he said to the Ent, his voice strong and clear, though his heart was low. "We ask only that you let us someday repay you, in whatever fashion we can."

Treebeard gave him a long, slow, piercing look. "We will remember," he said at last. "I will gather my, _hoom_, people. Make ready to leave."

It took a pathetically short amount of time to organize their meager supplies. The wounded were tended to again, as best they could be, wounds washed and dressed with what few clean rags they had.

Éowyn had taken a blow to the knee last evening - likely by accident of her own people - and it had stiffened and swelled in the night. While she was more fortunate than the man who had broken his leg, it was nevertheless unpleasant, and she winced as she tried to walk off the stiffness.

"You should have spoken of that last night." The Elf, Legolas, had appeared silently beside her, and her hand instinctively went for her sword before she forced herself to relax.

"It is nothing," she said. "It will pass."

"Your weariness will not. I know you did not sleep last night."

There was no condescension in his words, but Éowyn bristled nonetheless. "How could I? My people needed guarding, and I would ask no other to do it in my stead." For so long she had been trapped, helpless, unable to save her uncle from the wiles of that vile Wormtongue. She cared not how exhausted she was now - being able to _do_ something, even if it were only stand guard, was a relief beyond measure. Nightmare though this was, she was free, and she would never be caged again, not even in spirit. Éowyn was no weak woman in need of another's protection.

The Elf smiled, a very little. "You remind me of a friend," he said. "When we reach my home, you must meet her. I think you may become friends yourselves."

Éowyn was somewhat startled. She knew next to nothing of Elves; did they too have women warriors? Legolas was so unlike any in what few tales of the Elves she knew. She had no shield-sisters among the Rohirrim now, and perhaps she had a thing to look forward to. The very idea of looking forward to anything was already so alien to her that she hardly dared believe it.

Legolas must have read her expression. "This will be over soon," he said. "There is safety in my father's halls. You will lose no more of your people."

Éowyn glanced around them, at the ragged remnants of her once-mighty kingdom. "I do not think I could bear to," she said quietly. "We have already lost our homeland."

"You will build a new one," Legolas assured her. "I have always heard Men are more adaptable than Elves. There is a kingdom of Men between the Woodland Realm and the Dwarf kingdom of Erebor. In time, when it is safe, you may choose to live among them." He paused. "Can you write?"

"I can," Éowyn said, a little bewildered by the abrupt change in subject.

"Then when we reach my father's halls, you must write down all you know of your people's history. The lore of Rohan will survive, however far from home."

Such a thing would not have occurred to her. She was a warrior, and the warriors of Rohan rarely troubled themselves with reading and writing. Their histories and tales were the province of bards and scholars, but there were none of either now left.

"I will," she said, and managed a smile. "We must seem mere children to you."

Legolas actually laughed. "I am little more than a child myself, by the reckoning of my own people. Yes, the kingdoms of Men have risen and fallen through our history, b ut always a new one is born from the ashes of the old. Your own people endure."

That too was a thing Éowyn would never have thought of. Such a strange thing, that the destruction of her entire world would so open her mind.

"Your words are some of the first comfort I have known since long before this began," she said honestly. "I will do as you say, when we reach your realm. There are so few of us now that we must not let ourselves be forgotten."

* * *

A full week passed, and still Elrond's people had not arrived in the Woodland Realm.

Haldir had gone to wait near the forest's edge, alongside King Thranduil's company. They had made their camp in what trees remained standing, building flets in the manner of Lórien, for the dead could not climb.

And there _were_ more dead, though where they came from, none of the Wood-Elves could guess. They appeared to move in packs, and two such groups were destroyed in the first five days. It was the third group, that which appeared at the week's end, that nearly broke them all.

Many Elves had died in Lórien during the storm, and there had not been time to make certain they would not all rise again. And now, for whatever reason, they had found their way to the edge of Mirkwood.

They came at dawn, on the first cool morning any had experienced since before the storm. The company in the trees were chilled, their clothing cold and damp with dew, for they could light no fires. The morning was clear as crystal, but even the light was pale and cool.

One of the Wood-Elves spotted them first, the group of graceless, lumbering things that approached over the grasslands. When they drew nearer, near enough to see clearly, Haldir found himself paralyzed by horror.

It was one thing to kill creatures that had once been Men. It was an unpleasant business, and in a way he did feel pity for the things, for what they had once been. But this - he knew these Elves, every one, and had known many all his life. He had lived alongside them in Lothlórien for centuries, sharing their bread and laughter. Now they were but ruins, a grotesque parody of all they had been in life, clumsy and almost mindless.

For some, the cause of death was obvious: they had been crushed by fallen trees, or impaled on snapped boughs. Their wounds were horrible to look upon, but Haldir had seen much battle in his life, and was no stranger to bloody injury and death. It was those who were umarked whose appearance struck him to the heart. They looked like Elves still, but a dark tracery of veins stood heavy behind their death-pallid skin, and in their milky eyes was no sign of life, nor even recognition of that around them. They were staggering shells only, with all that had once made them _people_ now wholly absent. They were an abomination, and they could not be allowed to exist.

And yet, though he nocked an arrow, Haldir found he could not fire. Unlike the Lady Galadriel, he had taken no part in the Kinslayings, but memory of that terrible part of his people's history had been kept alive through the ages. So taboo was the idea of even considering harm to another Elf, that Haldir simply could not let his arrow fly.

The Wood-Elves did not share his compunction, but some wept openly as they felled the things that had once been their kindred. If they could do this, Haldir must aid them, however terrible the act might be. He knew what the Lady Galadriel had been forced to do, when first their people reached Thranduil's halls: if she could bear it, he must as well.

So he grit his teeth, and in despair loosed his arrow. His aim, as ever, was true, and an Ellyn he had known all his life dropped heavily to the earth.

Then the horde abruptly stopped, and, almost as one, turned their attention south. What they saw, the living did not yet known, but Haldir could hear it: the slow, massive, echoing steps of very many, very _large_ creatures. As they drew near, the ground beneath his tree trembled so deeply that its boughs shook.

The living glanced at one another. Though the dead had turned away, there was no relief to be found, for none could guess what fresh horror approached.

A horn sounded clear and strong through the still morning air - not an Elf-horn, but neither did it belong to any orc. It drew the dead onward, further from the edge of the forest, leaving the living to grow ever more bewildered. The shuddering of the ground grew stronger, grass and dry branches cracking beneath what were now unmistakably footsteps.

Few enough Elves now remembered the Ents, and even fewer had seen them. Haldir could scarcely believe his eyes, for he had thought them all perished long ago, but a veritable forest now approached. Taller even than the trees of Mirkwood, their stride was slow and deliberate as they made for the wood's edge.

The horns sounded again, and arrows flew from the boughs nearest the Ents' bodies, felling the dead creatures that approached. There were _Men_ perched among them, mortal Men borne along like children. Where had they come from? What mortal creatures could have survived the storm? Surely they had not dwelt in Fangorn itself. Their arrows came in volleys, careful and true: they were warriors then, these Men, and they did not what the Elves could not.

And there - yes, that was Prince Legolas, alive and seemingly unharmed. His expression was grim, but that was only to be expected. Aragorn and the Dwarf were with him, and Haldir could see two of the Halflings, but the rest of their companions he did not recognize.

HE had to turn away when the Ents started taking care of the walking dead in their own way - with their feet. It was practical, but too undignified an end for Haldir to witness. The battle-cries of the Men grated on his ears, and he shut his eyes, mastering his horror. He must not appear weak before these strange Men.

It seemed to last an eternity, though it was no more than half an hour. The Men and Ents between them had things over and done with in far less time than the Wood-Elves alone would have managed, and almost as efficiently. Ever after would it remain a horror in Haldir's mind, mitigated only but the arrival of those over who he had worried. King Thranduil at least would find his heart lifted.

Prince Legolas took a flying leap off his Ent-perch, and landed lightly on the edge of the flet. "I did not look to see any living out this far," he said. "It is good to see you, Haldir." Wherever they had come from, and however long they had traveled, the Prince did not look weary. Instead he was relieved, almost triumphant, dirty and bruised though he was.

"We wait for Lord Elrond," Haldir said. "None of his folk have yet arrived."

Legolas sobered, for surely, unless great evil had befallen them, they ought to have reached the Woodland Realm days ago. "He will come," he said, more firmly than perhaps he felt.

Haldir could only nod. "You come with more companions than you had, when last I saw you," he said, forcing away his gloom.

Legolas smiled, though there was a sadness to it. "I bring with me many of the Ents of Fangorn, and the survivors of the Kingdom of Rohan. The Ents seek knowledge, and the Men seek shelter."

Under any other circumstances, Thranduil likely would not have been terribly pleased by the prospect of taking in scores of Men, but having Legolas home safe ought to make him amenable to anything. "I do not know what answers we may give the Ents," Haldir said, "for we have few enough of our own. Much evil has happened since the storm, and few enough have had time to spare thought to whatever may have caused this."

"I doubt that will put off the Ents," Legolas said. "They would be the first to say they are not a hasty folk, and the dead are no peril to them." He clapped Haldir on the shoulder. "Rest, my friend. I will bring tidings of this to my father. Until we arrived, it had been three days since we had seen any of the dead: you ought not receive more company soon. Not until you see Lord Elrond."

Haldir only prayed Elrond would be alive when they did.

* * *

Mirkwood was not what Bilbo's tales had led Merry and Pippin to expect. And not simply because so little of it was left standing.

Bilbo had called it a dark and dreadful place, but the trees seemed green enough. It was a wild place, to be sure, nothing like the little woods of the Shire, but it did not look nearly as forbidding as Fangorn. Dew glittered bright on the leaves of the trees, both standing and fallen, as though they had been scattered with innumerable diamonds. It did not look like any place Elves would dwell, but Legolas _had_ said they lived in caves.

The hobbits would be glad enough to get there. They had been sparing with the Ents' water, and as a result they were constantly gnawingly hungry. Hungry, tired, sore, and filthy - right now all either wanted was a bowl of good thick stew, a bath, and somewhere to sleep that was softer than an Ent's limb. For the Ents had refused to stop: they marched day and night, and their passengers had to try to sleep in whatever manner they could. They were all of them jarred and bruised, except perhaps Legolas and Gandalf, and even they would likely welcome a soft bed.

But none of them would find one yet. Riding an Ent was an unsettling business on flat ground, but it was terrifying when they were traversing a half-ruined forest. However sure and firm their footsteps were, the creaking and splintering of the wood they stepped on seemed deafening after the quiet of their journey thus far. The hobbits covered their faces, for the boughs of the trees still standing whipped at them, sharp twigs scratching and their skin and catching in their hair.

It was not long before the heat grew merciless once again, the sun blazing on their shoulders. Both were badly sunburned, for evening the Shire they did not spend so much time under the open sky. Pippin's face had begun to peel, shedding strips of skin like a snake. It itched horribly, but there was nothing to be done.

They clung to Treebeard and tried to doze, as morning turned to afternoon and then to evening. When darkness fell they slept uneasily, jarred awake every few minutes. How long had Bilbo said his journey through Mirkwood had been? Surely the Ents could travel more swiftly than he and the Dwarves. Or so the hobbits hoped.

The last thing Thranduil expected to see was an army of Ents bearing down upon his halls.

The guards who came to him did not even know what the Ents _were_, and wondered if the forest itself were rising up. He followed them to the gates, a bewildered Tauriel in tow, wondering what could possibly have drawn the Ents so very far from home.

Lady Galadriel joined him, curious as he. The last days had been hard on her, and her eyes remained haunted, but her people had rallied around her in her grief. They were all of them quiet and subdued, but a week of sleeping in safety had done much for them. Some already had begun exploring the halls, mingling with their long-estranged kin. Many had drowned their grief in his barrels of Dorwinion, but he did not grudge them it. He had done much of that himself, at least until two days ago - Tauriel, in a rage, had smashed many of his goblets, and told him she would not deal with his advisors in his stead while he drank himself to death. They had fought over it, and almost come to blows, but eventually Thranduil's rage spent itself. He surrendered his bottles and jugs of wine - with ill grace, but he did it. Only later did he discover Tauriel had then drank the better part of it herself, dousing her own ire.

Not until last evening had he apologized, and she was some minutes in accepting it, but accept it she did, in time. He embraced her, and held her long in silence, unable to say anything that was on his heart or in his head. For now, it was enough that she forgave him. They would speak more of it soon, when he knew what words to use.

For now, there were the Ents to deal with. The moon was bright, when he looked out through the gates, washing the ruin of his forest in pale silver. Ents there were indeed, scores of them, striding through the night and bearing down upon his halls with grim determination.

"Ada!"

Thranduil froze, for he knew that voice. His son came leaping down from atop one of the Ents, and ran up to embrace him. "Ada, I have brought friends."

For a moment, Thranduil could do nothing save stare at Legolas, half unwilling to believe his own eyes. He pulled his son to him, for once uncaring who might see such an open display of emotion: his son had returned to him. His world was filled with shadow no longer.

Others had descended - men, women, and a dwarf. All looked weary and half-starved, their eyes as haunted as any of his people's. Wherever they had come from, their journey had not been an easy one.

But his own folk could care for them. For now, it was enough that Legolas was alive and unharmed. Thranduil stood back to look at his son, still half unable to believe his own good fortune.

"I am home, Ada. You need not fear for me now," Legolas said gently. "Tauriel! I have brought you a friend." He took the hand of the mortal woman behind him, drawing her forward. Though she was exhausted and filthy, there was nobility in her bearing, and a warrior's discipline.

"This is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan," Legolas said. "The Men with us are her people. Lady Éowyn, this is Tauriel, a very old friend."

Woman and elleth looked at one another, and Tauriel smiled properly for the first time in days. "Come, Lady," she said, clasping Éowyn's arm. "We will see to you and your people."

"My uncle needs a healer," Éowyn said, low. "He is king of our people, and this journey has been a hard one for him. He will never on his own admit his need, so you may require help."

Tauriel cast Thranduil a glance. "I am well used to dealing with recalcitrant kings," she said, but there was amusement in her tone, not hostility. "I can help you."

She led Éowyn inside, and Legolas glanced from her to Thranduil, who said nothing. Very pointedly.

"The Ents want answers, if he have any to give," Legolas said.

Galadriel raised her head, turning her face to the night sky. "I have no answers, but I do have suspicions. I will speak with them, though I fear they may prove disappointed."

She passed out through the gates, a slender, white-clad figure that moved silent in the moonlight. It was easy even for Thranduil to forget how old she was, but he thought she might be one of a very few still in Middle-Earth who had had prior contact with the Ents.

He bade his guards call for servants to aid the Men, many of whom truly did look a pitiable bunch. Thranduil knew nothing of Rohan, but these were in fact the only survivors of that realm, it would never recover.

"Find suitable quarters for their royalty," he said, though he was unsure how _that_ was to be accomplished. And it meant there were yet more mouths to feed.

He had told Tauriel that was his worry, not hers, but a worry it was. The Wood-Elves were not farmers: they relied on trade for their food and drink. While they had been well-stocked before the storm, that was also before a thousand unexpected guests arrived. It was fortunate indeed that the Lórien Elves could make their _lembas_, or their provisions might already have run out. Their wine was certainly dwindling fast.

The two Halflings followed Legolas, and Thranduil felt a sharp, unexpected pang at the sight of them. He had seen none of that race since Bilbo Baggins, and they stirred in him memories of times that no longer seemed ill, not when compared to the present. They gawked openly at their surroundings, wide-eyed, caring not for dignity or gravity. Thranduil found he envied them, for his crown had never before felt heavier than it did in the last days.

"You need bear this alone no longer, Ada," Legolas said quietly, following him into the halls. "King Théoden and I will see to his people. And I have with me Isildur's heir, a mighty man in his own right, and a wise one. Mithrandir has stayed with the company at the forest's edge, but he will come back with them, once Lord Elrond has arrived."

"You also have a Dwarf," Thranduil pointed out dryly. Their relations with the people of Erebor were good, but he would not have thought his son likely to well endure a Dwarf as a traveling companion. Legolas' time abroad had changed him, it seemed.

Legolas gave a small smile. "Gimli, son of Glóin. He wishes to return to Erebor when he can. He is not what I expected of a Dwarf."

Glóin…yes, Thranduil knew that name, for he was one of the thirteen Dwarves imprisoned in these halls sixty years ago. This Gimli would have little cause to love his hosts. "You have grown," Thranduil said. "When first you left these halls, I would not have thought you to have any kind words to say of any Dwarf."

Legolas sighed. "I have seen much, out in the world. Too long have we isolated ourselves from it."

"We certainly do no longer," Thranduil said, more dryly still. "It has descended upon us now. Tell me of these Men you have brought."

"It would be best if they told you themselves," Legolas said, following him into his quarters. "They are an honorable people, and strong, when they are not starving. I spoke to the Lady Éowyn of their future - of what they might do, when it is safe to leave these halls. She thinks they might settle in Dale, to be near their own kind." He glanced about. Have you no wine?"

Thranduil smiled, an edge of wryness to it. "Tauriel took it all."

Legolas stared at him. "_Tauriel_? And you _allowed_ her to?"

"I have relied on her much, especially since you left," Thranduil sighed. "And still more since this disaster began. I hope she and the Lady Éowyn do become friends, for she has seen and done much I should have spared her from, were I stronger."

"She would not thank you for it. Nor will I, if you try to shield me." Legolas' gaze was serious. "I mean it, Ada. Do not think I will sit back and allow you to destroy yourself in secret."

His son knew him too well, Thranduil thought. "Between you, Tauriel, and Lady Galadriel, I will have no chance. Go now and rest, my son. I will rest easy myself this night, knowing you are here."

Aragorn lingered outside with Lady Galadriel. It troubled him that Elrond had not arrived, for surely he should have reached Mirkwood long before the Ent-party.

"They will come, Elessar," Galadriel said gently. "They are delayed, though I know not how or why. I think perhaps they will bring answers we do not possess."

"How? What is there to be found in the mountains but death?"

She laid a hand on his arm. "Much in this world has changed, but I think it cannot all be for the ill. There are many things now that I fear, but there is always hope."

Perhaps she was right, but it was difficult to see how she could be.

"Rest, Aragorn," she said. "Your journey is over."

Go he did, but he was not happy. Likely few enough were.

Galadriel looked up at Treebeard, who had, naturally, patiently waited. In the moonlight he looked even more ancient than he really was, his bright eyes truly fathomless as he approached.

"I do not know what caused this, Old One," she said. "Not yet. And I know not what will follow. I fear I have little to give you."

"There may be no hasty answers," Treebeard said gravely. "The world is changed. Time will tell what it has changed in _to_."

She did not need to ask if he felt it safe to leave his forest for so long. Time had even less meaning to an Ent than it did to an Elf. "Thranduil will, I think, be forever grateful to you for returning his son to him alive. If it is within his power to grant it, he will surely give you whatever you ask."

Treebeard said nothing for a long while, and Galadriel wondered if he understood the meaning of gratitude. "I do not, _hoom, hoom_ know what we could need from the Elves, but we will remember it."

"I give you my thanks, Old One. You have brought with you joy that we sorely needed."

* * *

Though Éowyn was intensely curious about Tauriel, she was too exhausted to ask the Elf many questions.

She was also, in spite of everything, amazed. Never had she imagined anything like the Wood-Elves' halls: when Legolas said his father lived in caves, she had pictured something dark and rough and rustic. What she found instead was vast and airy, the stone smooth and carved like the forest, filled with golden light. The entire hall of Meduseld could have fit in it ten times over, and that was just the parts of the caverns she had seen. What must her people look like, to Legolas? Perhaps not even children, no matter what he said.

"It is a strange thing," she sighed, "knowing you are safe. It seems years since I last felt so, not weeks." Though she had not felt precisely _safe_ since long before that. But she had not had to contend with the walking dead until a fortnight ago.

"Our kindred from Lórien said the same. Though I fear we have now few quarters fit for royalty."

Éowyn snorted, a most unladylike sound. "I am royalty by accident of birth alone," she said, "and I did not grow up in fine halls. All I ask is a bath and somewhere to lay my head."

Tauriel paused, and looked at her curiously. "If you truly do not mind, I will give you my quarters. Eru knows I see the inside of them little enough anymore. _Someone _should make use of my bed."

She said it so dryly that Éowyn smiled. Already she thought this Tauriel was quite unlike Legolas - far less regal, and far more approachable. "I would not be turning you out? Where would you sleep?"

"Elves sleep little, and these last weeks I sleep whenever and wherever I can. As I said, I have much experience of recalcitrant kings: mine keeps me close to his side, and asks advice he rarely heeds. I dare not leave him for long, for fear or what he will do on his own."

Now she sounded outright dour, but there was affection in he tone, too, which made Éowyn smile. "If it is truly no trouble, I would gladly use your quarters. But you must let me aid you, however I can."

"I will hold you to that," Tauriel said, "and, if we are fortunate, there will be wine involved."

"That sounds no hardship." Truth be told, it was a relief not to feel so heavily under the weight of responsibility. And it had been years since Éowyn had been able to drink in another's company.

Tauriel clapped her on the shoulder, one warrior to another. "Bathe and rest," she said. "I will see to your uncle."

* * *

Aragorn did not bother going to Houses of Healing. There was nothing he could do that the Elves could not do better, and he would see more of the place that was to be his home for he knew not how long.

He had been all over Middle-Earth throughout his life, from the northern wastes of Forodwaith to the deserts of Harad, from the western shores to eastern Rhûn. He had stayed in Lothlórien and Imladris, had fought alongside the Rohirrim and the armies of Gondor, and had even tracked his way through Mirkwood, but never had he been inside Thranduil's halls. Even in the days of peace with Dale and Erebor, Thranduil rarely allowed any who were not his kin into his fortress.

So Aragorn explored, treading paths both high and low, listening to the faint, unintelligible echo of distant conversation. The Elves he saw were, by and large, either guardsmen or children; most were likely still grieving in private.

A small waterfall ran down one wall, the water channeling away beneath the path. Its rushing was a tranquil sound, soothing some of his unease. The faint spray was icy, a welcome change from the blistering heat of the last days.

No matter what Lady Galadriel might say, he was worried about the survivors of Imladris. Elrond and his people were warriors, but this was like nothing any of them had ever faced. Aragorn would not rest easy until he had seen them - until he had seen Arwen. One he had rested and eaten enough, he wanted to go out after them, no matter how lunatic the idea might sound.

He sighed, and his tread was heavy as he made his way to his assigned quarters. He lodged with Éomer and several other riders of the Riddermark, all of whom were with the healers. A bath was in order before he did anything else. If he was to see to the wounded in any way, it would be best not to reek when he did so.

* * *

The Elves were not what Éomer expected. He had been brought up on tales of how devious and dangerous they were, and while he had no doubt they _could_ be dangerous, there was a vast depth of compassion in them.

It was a slightly awkward compassion, true, but he received the impression that they were no more used to dealing with Men than his own people were with Elves. Many of the healers didn't even speak the Common Tongue, which was a stark clue that they rarely treated with outsiders of any kind.

To his surprise, their King moved among the Rohirrim, trailed by a redheaded female Elf that Éomer assumed was some sort of royal aide. The children goggled at him, which relieved Éomer: they had seen too much horror in the last weeks. Let them marvel at the Elves.

Not all his companions had come to the Houses: the uninjured had been spirited off he knew not where. Presumably to whatever accommodation the Elves had for them. Éowyn must be among them, for she was nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, King Théoden was too busy moving among his people to receive any treatment himself. While his wounds were mild enough, he had eaten even less than the rest of them, insisting part of his rations be given to his people. So long had he spent idle under Wormtongue's influence that his strength was not what it should be, though Éomer knew he would never admit it.

The red-haired Elf approached, and took him gently but firmly by the arm. Éomer could not at first hear what she said to him, but her stride was determined as she drew him toward one of the beds.

"Some of your people are nervous, King Théoden," she said, as she led him to the bed nearest Éomer. "Their minds may ease, if they see you accept our aid without fear. They will doubtless take their cue from their King." Her voice was gentle, but there was an undertone to it that would brook no argument. And there was little enough argument to be made, for she was right: if their king was at ease, so too would the Rohirrim be.

One of the healers beckoned Éomer, and he followed, wondering where he was to go next. His scrapes and abrasions had been cleaned and bandaged, and he thought there was little more to be done - until his guide led him to a room with a large, steaming wooden tub of water.

"Mind your bandages," she said, and actually gave him a small smile.

Éomer laughed, though he eyed the tub greedily. A bath, some food, and then he would gratefully sleep for the next twelve hours.

* * *

Galadriel had at first been surprised to find a garden in these caverns. However they might be carven to look like a forest, she would not have thought much could grow here.

Thranduil had led her to it the day after their quasi-Kinslaying. He was grim and silent as he did so, and asked that she keep knowledge of the place to herself for now, for the garden had once been his long-departed wife's.

"You might perhaps feel more at home here," he said, and though his tone was gruff, she knew he meant it.

It was a vast, wild, overgrown place, green vines once carefully tended now running riot. A tangle of white roses had climbed a trellis of delicate carven granite, and the long grass beneath her bare feet was sprinkled with starry, pale blue flowers. By some enchantment the light was bright as the sun, warm without being overly hot: yes, once this place had been carefully tended and well-loved.

There were signs here and there that old her someone else had tended to it not long ago, or tried to. Some of the far statuary had been cleared of vines, moss carefully removed. Galadriel highly doubted it was Thranduil's work; perhaps Legolas came here, when he wished to think of his mother.

Galadriel knew not what had become of Thranduil's wife - she did not even know the elleth's name. Whatever her fate had been, her loss seemed to have broken Thranduil. It made his gift of this garden all the more meaningful.

There was a round area of grass sunken into the earth at the center of the garden, and it was here she put her mirror. It had been simple enough to find a basin large enough, and a silver ewer. A small stream wound its way through the roses, and she gathered some of its water in her ewer.

She wanted to know what had befallen Frodo and Sam. All her attempts to discern the cause of the storm and the dead had proved fruitless, but perhaps she could learn their fate. If they had been in Emyn Muil when the storm hit, and if they had survived it, there would be no danger of the walking dead for many miles. On that vast, harsh plain, nothing lived. And even if they had perished, at least she would know.

The eye of her mirror cast far afield, out past the hordes of dead in Rohan. She feared that Mithrandir was right, that the Men he had brought from that land were indeed its only survivors. Out, out over the glimmering line of the Anduin, which flowed as it had always done, unaffected and uncaring of the disaster that had befallen the world.

Over Emyn Muil her eye wandered, searching for any sign of life - or anything that might once have been alive. Those in the Dead Marshes were mere shades, gone now so long that she passed over them easily enough.

But there was nothing. Her sight roved over the wreck of Mordor, though she knew they could not have reached it before the storm caught them. But it was no use - of Frodo and Sam she could find no sign at all.

Living, dead, or somewhere in between, they were no longer in Middle-Earth.


	4. The Refuge

Okay, so I know that Elves never remarry (except for Fëanor's dad, which turned out…not good), but it's always kind of bugged me, since if a dead Elf refuses to be reincarnated, their spouse is left single until literally the end of time. So, for the sake of my inner Tauriel/Thranduil shipper, I'm ignoring that little tidbit of canon. Tolkien changed his mind on so many things about the Elves throughout his life that I'm just going to pretend that was one of them.

Also, while Galadriel has multiple backstories, I'm going with the one where she fought Fëanor at Alqualondë, just because having fought in one of the Kinslayings = extra ouch for her right now. (Yes, I'm a bastard. What can I say.) Plus, it gives her more reason to be weirded out by Tauriel.

About Tauriel: it's not canon (yet) that she's Fëanorian, but Fëanor and his sons were the only red-haired Elves ever, and one of his sons was never accounted for. Given that Fëanor was a _giant fucking dick_, I figured Thranduil wouldn't want to tell her about her heritage. (Not that the Wood Elves would have a whole lot of cause to think about it, since IIRC Thranduil's the only one who had anything to do with the Fëanorians, and he was just a kid.)

Longest author's note ever. Anyway, on to the chapter.

* * *

Frodo and Sam had lost count of the miserable days they spent tracking their way back through the harsh plains.

Gollum had been absent when the storm descended, off foraging somewhere on his own, and they had seen no sign of him since. Frodo grieved a little, but Sam was quite glad they were well shut of the odious creature.

The heat was such that they could only travel by night, spending their days sleeping in whatever shade they could find. At least there was plenty of water, though it grew increasingly brackish as the days wore on.

It was late evening now, and they were eating what Sam supposed was breakfast. The moon was full, its silvery glow almost as bright as daylight. In spite of their hunger and the unpleasant taste of their water, he was almost cheerful. Their task had been taken care of for them, and while he worried a little over what they might find when they reached the edge of the accursed plains, he could imagine nothing worse than whatever peril Mordor might have held for them.

And he kept those worries to himself, for Frodo's sake. Frodo, who had said very little these last days, and who often touched his chest, in the spot the Ring had rested so long. Sam knew nothing of magic rings, but perhaps its loss had caused Frodo more shock than he was letting on.

"Come on, Mr. Frodo. Another day and we should find forest again." Sam shouldered his pack, his voice firm and reassuring, though he felt little assurance himself.

Frodo roused himself. He knew he had to make more of an effort, for Sam's sake if not his own, but he was so very tired. It was weariness of the spirit even more than the body, and he did not know how much longer he could keep going. He wondered, in his darkest moments, what the point was.

But Sam still had hope, and Frodo could not leave him to make this journey on his own. So he shouldered his own pack, and started off once more across the bleak grey rock.

The change was so sudden that it left them both reeling. In the space of a blink, the sky bled into a dull red, dotted with dark, rusty clouds. The comparatively comfortable, humid warmth of the evening was suddenly sweltering and arid, the stones beneath their feet obsidian-black, and sharp enough to hurt even their though soles.

They froze, and Sam at once drew his sword, shoving Frodo behind him and gazing wildly around.

"You need not fear, little ones. There are none here who will harm you."

He turned, sword raised, and found himself face-to-face with a woman. She was quite small for the race of Men, pale of skin and dark of hair. And very, very obviously dead.

It looked as though someone had tried to hack out her heart. Dark blood, long-dried, marred her death-pallid face, and had spread over her pale gown stains that looked black in the dim light. Her eyes too were filmed with blood, like dark, monstrous tears that refused to fall.

Frodo went rigid, but Sam cried out in sheer horror. He knew he should attack the creature, but what good would it do? How did you kill a thing that was already dead?

"We have come to aid you, little ones," she said, and her voice was gentle, her accent like nothing he had yet heard. "What has befallen your world is the fault of ours."

Another woman came up beside her, this one much taller, and Sam could not discern if this one were alive or dead. She was as pallid as the corpse-woman, but there was no blood on her skin, and no film of death on her odd eyes, which did not match. Her hair was a violent shade of blue, obviously artificial, and she had more scars than Sam had ever seen on one person. Something had tried to tear her apart, too, but it would seem it had failed.

"The curse that hit your world was intentional," she said, and her accent was even odder than the dead woman's. "It just wasn't meant for you. The flipping idiot who made it aimed the wrong way. The good news is that we can help you some, but the bad news is that it's far from over.

"I can't send anyone with you - not now, and maybe not ever. We've got our own war brewing here. If it's possible, I'll send Aelis here as a messenger, but don't count on it."

She pulled something from the pocket of her long dark coat, and handed it to Sam, who took it gingerly. It was a large bottle of cut-green glass, filled with a liquid that looked black. "There's a woman in your world," she said. "Her name's Galadriel. Give that to her, and _only_ to her. Don't even tell anyone else you have it. She won't know what it is, but she'll know what to do with it, when the time comes. Stow it away in your pack for now."

Sam never was certain just why he listened to her. He found himself sheathing his sword and doing as she said, carefully hiding the bottle among his few spare clothes.

"And you." It was Frodo she addressed now - Frodo, who had not moved at all the entire time. "You don't have a ring to guard anymore, but now you've got this. Be careful with it, and whatever you do, _don't_ try to use it yet."

She swung something off her back: a sword in a plain leather scabbard, easily six feet long. "I don't know who in your world _will_ be able to use it, but _someone_ has to. The person who made that curse might not have intended to hit your world, but she'll take advantage of it, so you better be ready to deal with her."

"She?" Sam asked, even as Frodo hesitantly took the sword. There was something almost hypnotic about this woman's burning, mismatched eyes.

The woman sighed. "Yes, 'she'. She calls herself the Mother, though she can't actually create anything. And that sword is probably the only thing that can kill her. You'll know her when you see her, if she's dense enough to turn up where you're going - and she just might. She looks a lot like me, minus the blue hair and scars. If whoever's got that sword sees her, tell 'em to kill her before she can talk to them."

Sam probably should have asked why, but he didn't. He couldn't. It seemed he and Frodo would not escape bearing doom after all.

"I'll drop you off as close as I can to where you're going. Good luck - you're gonna need it."

* * *

Gandalf was keeping watch, the night Lord Elrond finally appeared.

The Elves had been busy, burying their dead all the hours of the day, quietly wishing their spirits well on their journey to the halls of Mandos. Where once had been a field of slaughter, there were now neat rows of burial-mounds, the scent of freshly-turned earth obscuring the stench of death.

They worked, and they watched, and they waited, but with each passing day, their hopes for Lord Elrond faded. Some, unable to bear it any longer, went back to Thranduil's halls, and others came to take their place, though they too were soon disheartened.

But now, a small figure in the distance, Lord Elrond approached. Elrond, and far too few of his people: from what Gandalf could see, he had perhaps a quarter of the population of Imladris with him. Even at this distance his face was pale and grim, with a long, half-healed cut across his brow. His people moved slowly, wearily, and even at this distance Gandalf could see they were starving.

"Gather your supplies," he said to the Wood-Elves. "And do it quickly! We must go to them."

Go they did. Though the moon was only a sliver, the starlight was enough for the eyes of the Elves, and they all but flew to their battered, exhausted kindred, bearing what food and drink they had. Many of the refugees from Imladris looked close to collapsing, and Gandalf wondered, a little uneasily, what they had run afoul of out there.

Incredibly, Bilbo was still with them. And, though he was hungry and tired and ill-tempered, he looked little the worse for wear. He scowled at the forest, and muttered something about things he never though he'd be grateful for. He did not seem nearly so haunted as the Elves, but that, Gandalf thought, was hobbits all over. He trod along beside Elrond, occasionally glancing up at the Elf's face, and Gandalf wondered if his grumbling wasn't partly for Elrond's benefit. It was certainly difficult to ignore.

"I cannot speak of it," Elrond said, before Gandalf could ask. "Not yet. Not out here. And I will not sleep until we are safe in Thranduil's halls. There is more evil out there than you yet know." And indeed his face was ashen, his eyes lost in dark circles and his face pinched with hunger.

"Rest a while, first," Gandalf said, "and eat. There are no dead to be found here, not anymore."

He dispatched one of the Wood-Elves to take tidings back to Thranduil, and led Elrond and his companions into the trees.

"He's right, Gandalf," Bilbo said quietly. "Some of the things we saw…they aren't the dead. Whatever they are, they're much worse."

That was news that would be welcome by no one. Gandalf rested a hand on the hobbit's curly head, but said nothing. To have survive such a perilous journey at such an advanced age…well, he had always said hobbits were made of sterner stuff than they appeared on the surface. He hoped that would have kept the Shire safe, and that it would continue to do so.

* * *

In Thranduil's halls, things were - finally - not quite so grim.

The survivors of Rohan, now fed and clean and well-rested, immediately set about earning their keep. While the Wood-Elves were not farmers, many of the peasants of Rohan had been, and they were already planning for spring.

Tauriel helped them, for she knew the land as they did not. Atop the caverns was a large flat space, with few trees, and she set bout showing them how to defend it against any dead that might turn up.

They worked each day in the fierce, hot sunshine, men and women and children who sometimes even dared laugh. Elves stood guard all around the perimeter but thus far there had been no need: it was a steep climb from all sides save the north, and the dead were unsuited to climb anything.

"If the weather continues like this, we might be able to get a crop this winter," a woman said. She was sun-browned and leathery, and looked as tough as tree-roots. Her greying hair had at one point been knotted behind her head, but had no come loose in wild wisps. Her name was Olwen, and even the riders of the Riddermark deferred to her and her knowledge.

"We could use it," Tauriel admitted. Thranduil still would not speak to her of their food dilemma, but she was no fool - if it was not dire yet, it would be soon. These last days he had spoken little of anything, but he seemed to have an almost compulsive need to have her near, so Lady Éowyn had retained use of Tauriel's quarters. Something was troubling him deeply, but Tauriel knew she could force no confessions out of him yet. For now all she could do was often stay, and hope her quiet presence could ease him somehow. It meant she rarely stayed aboveground for very long at a stretch: she would make excuse to go ask his opinion on their defenses, or how he thought it best to haul water up from the river. For she needed assurance of his well-being as much as he did hers. It was unhealthy, perhaps, but it was what they were.

"I know," Olwen said dourly. "I have heard that there is still nothing to be hunted. When I think of all that was lost in Rohan…"

She fell silent, and Tauriel knew by now to leave her to her thoughts. Instead she went to Lady Éowyn, who was hacking at the earth with a shovel, and muttering words in her own tongue that Tauriel suspected was cursing.

Grabbing her own shovel, she arched an eyebrow at Éowyn. "You will work yourself to death, at this rate," she said.

Éowyn paused, and brushed a strand of golden hair from her eyes. "If I work, I do not think," she said. "I am not yet ready to think."

Tauriel could not fault her for it. She herself disliked doing so, and she had not lost her home and nearly all her people.

"You and I, we are warriors," she said, prying at a rock with her shovel. The dry ground was packed hard and dusty, the scent of it mingling sharp with that of dying fir. "Let the others look to our future. Our task is to ensure we are all alive to see any future at all."

"I would that it were that simple," Éowyn said, taking a drink from the steel canteen beside her. "As my uncle reminds me, I am princess of Rohan. I am only so because he lost his son, and it is my brother who is heir, not me. I love my uncle, but I fear he would keep me trapped inside, beset with duties I do not desire and am wholly unsuited for."

Tauriel actually laughed - the first time she had truly done so since before the storm. "You sound much like me. I was advisor to my king long before this, and I hated many of the tasks I was given. I was a warrior, I told myself, so why was I not out _being_ one? It was only much later that he told me he wished my counsel because I was the only one who gave him honesty without self-interest." In fact he had made that fully clear only a week past.

"I have seen few women among your warriors," Éowyn said. "Female Elves, I mean. Why is that?"

Tauriel sighed, and took the canteen herself. _That_ was an ongoing debate among many families; she had escaped it only because she had no family. "Among our people, ellyth are usually far better healers than ellon. We can all fight, if we must, but it is thought to damage our healing abilities if we fight too often. I was never a gifted healer, but I have always been good with a blow and a blade. Fortunately, King Thranduil recognized that."

"Almost I envy you," Éowyn said. "Once there were many Shieldmaidens of the Rohirrim, but our numbers have dwindled. I am as capable a warrior as my brother, but at times it feels like all who know me would rather see me in a cage, chained to needle and spindle."

"Well, you need not fear that here," Tauriel assured her. "There is little enough call for embroidery now." And indeed some of the ellyth of the court were somewhat put out by that. They did not complain, except perhaps to each other, but it was obvious nonetheless.

"And I thank all fortune for it," Éowyn said dryly. "I would rather be out here, gouging the earth in this heat, than seated uselessly in some hall. If such tragedy had to befall my people, at least I can be of real use to them."

* * *

The slight lifting of collective spirits did little for Thranduil, who had spoken at length with Galadriel some days ago. He knew all she had - and had not - seen in her mirror. He spoke of none of it to anyone, not even Legolas or Tauriel, for it worried him. Immensely.

He was alone in his quarters now, and he poured himself a large goblet of wine. No matter what Tauriel might say - or shout, as the case may be - he needed some now.

A panting, disturbed messenger had just arrived from the forest's outer edge, bearing tidings of Lord Elrond's arrival. While Thranduil was grateful his kin had survived, the messenger had told him of their state, and he now wondered what new doom was to befall them.

The wine's sweet burn was welcome to his tongue and throat, and he had finished the goblet in three long draughts. Though he knew Tauriel would castigate him for it, he immediately poured another. Once he told her all he knew, she would likely join him.

In a sense, he was relieved. The three great kingdoms of the Elves would survive, however diminished. No, he was not best pleased to have them all _here_, but even he could recognize how fortunate he was, that his people had come through this almost entirely unscathed. He had his home, and his son, and at the very least, his life was never _dull_. The dead could hammer at his gates a thousand years and never hope to gain entrance, but he could not help his worry. He was King; such was his duty, and he would not lay it at any other's feet - not even Legolas, who should succeed him should any harm befall him. Nor would he burden Galadriel, who he knew suffered far more than she let on. She had more horror to relive than he, and he would not add to it.

So he drank, and worried, and mused, until he heard Tauriel clatter into his outer chambers. She deliberately made noise, he knew, so that she would not catch him by surprise, but he would have known of her approach even had she been stealthy as the breeze. He was too attuned to her to miss her passage.

He wondered, as he often did, just when he had become so drawn to her. The Battle of Five Armies had started it, certainly, but his _need_ for her came later: first for her counsel, and then for her presence. He had not realized he loved her until a few years before the storm, and he was left with no idea what to do about it.

Elves very rarely remarried, and when they did, it often ended…poorly. Tauriel's ancestor, Fëanor, might not have done so much evil had his father not remarried after his mother's death. And Tauriel was a commoner, even among her own people - it would look like a match made in disaster.

Or so he had thought. It had become clear to Thranduil, in the intervening years, that he was not so inscrutable as he might wish. His convoluted feelings for his Captain had become something of an open secret among the Wood-Elves' nobility, and they…did not appear to care. Had they been Sindar or Noldor, they would surely - knowing the Fëanorian debacle - object strongly, but they were Silvan Elves. They had never seen the light nor shores of Valinor, and they had lived for hundreds of years in the shadow of evil. If their King wanted to wed his Captain, well, that was his own business.

The true problem was that Thranduil remained uncertain of what Tauriel felt for him. He knew she cared about him greatly, but to what extent, and in what fashion, he still did not know. And it was difficult enough for him to speak of his own feelings: his drunken admission that he needed her was as close as he had yet come. He must speak with her, and soon, but the plain truth was that he did not know how.

When Tauriel entered his chamber, her eyes momentarily narrowed at the sight of the decanter on his table. It was only a moment, however, and then she sighed. There were smudges of dirt and dust on her face and clothes: she must have worked long on the land above the caves. "I know you would not do this without cause," she said, "so tell me the cause. And do not think you will spare me by your silence," she added, crossing the wide stone floor to him. "I will find out one way or another, and I would rather it be from you."

Thranduil laughed, though there was only black humor in it, and poured her a goblet of wine. "Lord Elrond had arrived at the outer edges of the forest," he said, "and the messenger who told me of his coming says he bears more ill news. I begin to wonder if our final doom has not merely been delayed."

Tauriel drank half her goblet at one go, and reached out to touch his hand. Hers was still that of a warrior, callused and strong, and for now very warm.

"I will not believe that," she said. "I cannot. There must be some reason we all have survived, and I refuse to think it only for us to die later."

"Then your faith must be enough for the both of us," he said heavily. "For just now I cannot see any ending to this tale that is not evil."

Tauriel's mouth quirked into a smile. "At least there is no dragon," she said.

Thranduil stared at her, and then, to his own surprise, he laughed again - genuinely this time. "True," he said. And he has been dead far too long to rise again."

Tauriel's smile turned to a grin. She had been hoping she could make him laugh - that she could do anything to lift his gloom. "Can you imagine that? Smaug's bones trying to flap, while he wonders why he cannot breathe fire?" _She_ could, and the vision was beyond comical.

"And lumbering blindly into the trees," Thranduil added. "Perhaps he could be persuaded to eat some of the dead."

There was the dryness of his tone that she knew so well, and had missed so much. Under ordinary circumstances, her king had a sense of humor that was as wicked as it was subtle, and that he showed to very few people. Tauriel had been afraid it was lost forever. She gave his hand a squeeze. "Things will be well, Thranduil. In the end. We _must_ look to the future, if we are to weather this at all."

He was looking at her very strangely, his eyes bright in the firelight. "Have you given thought to your own future, Tauriel?" he asked, and a slight, not-unpleasant shiver ran down her spine.

"Not as I should," she admitted. "I have had little opportunity, while we settle our guests. Thus far Lady Éowyn has occupied my quarters, since I have had no chance to use them."

Still she could not read his expression. Tauriel had long ago learned to read Thranduil's thoughts in his face, to some extent at least, but now she had little idea what was in his mind - or perhaps she feared to. She knew she meant much to him, but he had said so very little, and she dared not assume.

"Stay with me," Thranduil said, his voice soft but deep. "Bring what you will from your quarters, and give them over permanently to Lady Éowyn. I would keep you near."

Tauriel drew a deep breath. How strange, that she who feared next to nothing was afraid now to speak. "_How_ near?"

Thranduil smiled, but his eyes were serious and somewhat terrifying, for there was a desperate, depthless need in them. Rather than answer, he drew nearer to her and ran the fingers of his free hand through her hair. Even that light touch made her shiver again, and when he kissed her, all thought momentarily fled her mind.

Tauriel had never kissed anyone before. Casual liaisons were vanishingly uncommon among the Elves, and she had never given thought to marriage. She had little idea of how to return the kiss, and for once in her life surrendered her control. She was unsurprised to find he tasted of wine, but there was something else, something deep and rich that she suspected was purely Thranduil.

He was gentle at first, allowing her time to react, to breathe, but after a few moments his fingers tightened in her hair, and his kiss turned into something desperate and hungry.

She wrapped her free arm around his neck on instinct, drawing him closer still. He radiated heat like a furnace even through his clothes, and though she had spent a long day beneath a blistering sun, she welcomed it.

"This near," Thranduil breathed against her lips, "always."

"Always," she affirmed, and let out a contented sigh as he drew her mouth back to his.

* * *

Merry and Pippin, lacking anything better to do, had spent the day exploring.

Though Bilbo had said much about Mirkwood, he had spoken little of the Wood-Elves' halls. Seeing them now, neither could fathom why.

"Where do you suppose the light comes from?" Pippin asked. They stood on a high walkway of stone, empty but for themselves, staring at what looked for all the world like a piercing ray of sunlight. "There aren't any holes to let it in."

"They're Elves, Pip," Merry said. "They're magic, aren't they? You might as well ask where the waterfalls come from."

"I was wondering that, too." Pippin paused. "Do you think if we climbed one of those pillars, we could find out?"

"Fall like that, you'd break your neck. Better to ask an Elf."

"Only my father is likely to know." Legolas, as usual, had come up silently behind them. "And what do you think of my home?

"It's amazing," Merry said, and meant it wholeheartedly. "It might take weeks to explore it all."

Legolas smiled. Though the hobbits had seen little of him since their arrival, his spirits had lifted notably. And why should they not? He was home. "Have you seen the kitchens?"

Merry and Pippin glanced at one another, guilty. While they had behaved themselves when it came to the food - they were not about to steal any, since so many people needed it - they _had_ been at the wine-barrels more than once.

Legolas laughed. "Come with me. There are some down below who would see you."

They followed after him, jogging to keep up, and wondering who he meant. They had to do a bit of dodging and weaving - more than a bit, for now that night had fallen, most of the caves' population was out and about. Many were quiet, but there were those who spoke animatedly to one another, their hearts lighter than the others'. A few were even smiling, and someone up ahead of the hobbits actually laughed.

Down they went, traversing what seemed like countless steps, until they truly felt as though they were underground. The lights grew fewer and further between, and their company thinned out as well, until only a few followed behind.

A raucous noise filtered up the narrow staircase: the sound of what seemed to be a large party. Snatches of songs in unknown languages echoed up the passageway, and when they reached the doorway at the foot of the stairs, they were hit by a palpable haze of alcohol.

A party it was indeed, in full swing. Dozens of candles, half-burned, were arranged around the large room on plates, with a big white lamp at the center of the long table. The table itself was littered with empty pitchers and glasses, as well as a scattering of crumbs.

"Some of our friends have taken to eating their meals down here," Legolas said, amusement in his voice. And, though it was at first difficult to tell in the dim light, it did seem as though a good half of the refugees from Rohan were here.

"Come in, young hobbits!" Gimli, rosy-faced with drink, hailed them from a bench. He was surrounded by children, and appeared to have been telling them a story. His red beard was still dotted with crumbs, his eyes bright from wine.

Both Merry and Pippin grinned, for the first time in what felt like an age. They dodged a group of extremely ungraceful dancers, who were trying to follow the off-tempo rhythm of a flute, and tripped over an outstretched pair of legs belonging to some unfortunate who had drunk himself unconscious under the table.

"Here, try this." Gimli shoved a flagon into Merry's hands, its dark contents sloshing against the rim. "Put the hair on your feet."

Merry took a gulp, and immediately choked. "What _is_ that?" he wheezed, passing the cup to Pippin.

Gimli's deep laughter rang through the room. "Dorwinion wine, Master Merry. It only takes a little."

Behind Merry, Pippin spluttered, and Gimli laughed again. It would appear that the Dwarf was right, for even that single gulp had left Merry feeling quite at one with the world.

"And that is with it well-watered," Legolas said, taking the cup from Pippin and drinking some himself. "In its pure state, a large goblet could even put many an Elf to sleep."

The thought of a drunken Elf made Pippin giggle hysterically, and grab the flagon from Legolas' hands. He took a long draw, coughed, and giggled harder.

"Where is Aragorn?" Merry asked, squinting at the corners of the room.

Gimli sighed heavily. "He wouldn't come down," he said. "He worries about Lord Elrond and his people, no matter what anyone tells him. Go on, you young rascals," he added, to the children. "I need a word with these two."

Though the children were still highly curious about the hobbits, they went, leaving Merry and Pippin alone with Gimli and Legolas. Pippin, who was rapidly growing unsteady on his feet, sat before he could fall, passing the cup to Merry.

"I don't know why he worries," Gimli said, pouring himself more wine. "A messenger did say Lord Elrond's party had reached the edge of the forest."

"Aragorn will not rest easily until they all stand before him," Legolas said, pouring his own cup. "Nor can I fault him for it. We do not know what may still be out there."

"Did the messenger say anything about a hobbit?" Merry asked, draining the flagon. His vision was blurring already.

"Bilbo is with them, yes," Legolas said, "and is none too happy, it would seem."

The thought of the old hobbit surviving such a journey was heartening. It gave Merry and Pippin some hope that Frodo and Sam might yet be alive.


	5. The Tidings

Éowyn, weary and burned uncomfortably by the sun, had decided to spend the day in the Wood Elves' libraries, and take Legolas' advice to heart.

Never had she seen such a place. Easily twice the size of Meduseld, it was filled with tall shelves piled with books and scrolls, some of which looked ancient. The Elves, it would seem, wrote down everything they considered worthy of note, and kept it forever. It smelled of old paper and woodsmoke, and at the front of the room, near the doors, were dozens of massive oak desks.

She did not know where to begin. Among the Rohirrim, songs, legends, and history were for the most part handed down through fireside tales and song. As she had told Legolas, she could read and write, but she had had little cause to do much of either. That would change soon enough.

An Elf sat at one of the desks, an Elf who looked little more than a boy, youthful even by the standards of his people. He glanced up when she entered, setting aside his quill.

"Lady Éowyn?" he asked. "Prince Legolas said you would visit here, in time. I have paper and quills for you, and should you desire to read anything, I have been tasked to find it for you."

"I do not know your language," Éowyn said, trialing her fingers along one of the desks as she approached. "Though it seems I will have ample time to learn. Come winter, perhaps I will study it."

Her assertion surprised even her. The people of Rohan had never, so far as she knew, had cause to learn any tongue beyond their own and Common. But then, it would be a good thing to learn of those who had given her people shelter.

The Elf seemed as surprised as she, his eyebrows rising. "Forgive me, Lady, but I would not have thought you would have any interest in the Elven tongue."

"Before the storm, you would have been right," she said honestly. "But so much is now changed, and I must change with it."

The Elf sighed. "As must we all," he said. "Come, my Lady. I will show you to your desk."

Once seated, Éowyn looked at all that had been laid out before her. Had she allowed herself, she might have felt daunted, for this was wholly outside all her experience. She had written very little since she was a child, when her mother learned her her letters. So she approached the task as she did all else, with firm determination, carefully dipping her quill in the glass ink-pot.

Initially she had no idea where to begin. Eventually she started writing down the tales and songs her mother had taught her and Éomer as children, her writing careful and precise on the smooth paper. It was a laborious process, and took longer than she would have liked, but she was pleased with her work. As Prince Legolas had said, someone had to do it, and no one else was likely to.

At first, she could feel the curious eyes of the Elf on her, but it was not long before she became lost in her task. There was catharsis to be found in writing of her old home, the scritch of quill on paper somehow peaceful. It was the closest she had come to tranquility since long before the storm.

"Taking my advice?"

Éowyn looked up, startled. It was rare that she did not hear anyone approach - but then, Prince Legolas was an Elf, and thus adept at sneaking.

"I am. Though I fear it may take me years," she added, a little wryly.

He laughed, a true laugh, such as she had heard from precious few people of late. "In here, you will have years. My kindred from Imladris will arrive soon, and I thought that you and your own kin would like to meet them. It might be well for all this hall's nobility to hold council."

Éowyn did not relish that idea at all, but it was her duty. "I will summon my brother and my uncle. Where shall we meet?"

"You have a little time to spare," Legolas said. "We will gather in my father's council chambers. For once, he seems to be in a pleasant mood."

Hearing him speak so lightly of his father was somewhat jarring. Éowyn was not daunted by much, but the Elvenking came near to doing so. Not that she would ever let on. "I only hope Lord Elrond's news is not overly ill," she said, though she was sure it was a vain hope. She doubted the outside world had changed any for the better.

Legolas sobered. "I fear we are not fortunate enough to hear anything good, but that they are alive at all is a sign of favor. It is more than I dared hope since our arrival. I can only wonder what it was they saw out there."

Éowyn wondered as well, and wished she need not know.

* * *

Tauriel had begun her day happier than she had felt in what seemed like an age of the world. Of course, that could not possibly be allowed to last.

A worried guard had come to give Thranduil – and thank Eru both he and she had both been properly dressed at the moment – that Lord Elrond would call a council as soon as he was able. He would say little more than that, and Thranduil did not ask. There was little point, if they were to hear it straight from Elrond.

She followed close after him, and tried to school her expression into something approaching neutral. It was difficult; even with such ill news, a smile threatened to break over her face.

That she had spent the night in Thranduil's private rooms would not be seen as odd. She'd done it before, as had several of the other captains, and those few of his advisors he could bear to have near him for any length of time. His outer chambers held so many couches for exactly that reason. All she had to worry about was betraying herself by her own reactions, and she could control those well enough – or at least, so she thought, until she spotted Éowyn. Even in so short a time, the woman had become her friend, and the only one she thought she might confide in.

But that would have to wait. Éowyn had clearly been summoned as well, for she looked worried. Her other kin were not with her, which would suggest she had been working on something alone. There were faint smudges of ink on her fingers, and Tauriel wondered if she'd found the library.

"Lady Éowyn," Tauriel said, barely managing to remember to add the honorific before her name. "Have you been called to council?"

"I have," she said, giving Thranduil a slightly wary look before bowing. "Though I was told little. I hope that is not an ill sign."

"It certainly can't be a good one," Thranduil said bluntly, and Tauriel was somewhat surprised when he returned the bow. His appraisal of Éowyn was curious, likely because Tauriel had so swiftly befriended her. Tauriel was not, as he well knew, someone who made friends easily – or cared to. Much of her life had been devoted to duty, even before she was made Captain of the Guard, and that left little enough time to seek companionship.

Éowyn, for her part, seemed wary but undaunted, which few enough people could claim in the presence of Thranduil. She was silent as they walked, taking in their surroundings, and Tauriel had little doubt she was memorizing the way.

The council chambers, they found, were quite full. Many of the Lórien Elves had gathered, flanked beside the chairs of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Éowyn's brother and King Théoden sat a little away, their unease palpable, while the man Tauriel recognized as Aragorn had joined Gimli, Gandalf, and the halflings. An older halfling had accompanied him, as well as the Lady Arwen, who looked both exhausted and haunted – as did all the other Imladris Elves. It was clear they had not paused either to bathe or to rest.

Tauriel had never seen Lord Elrond, but she could not imagine he always looked so grim. A shadow the like of which she had never seen was in his eyes – it could only be the dead who had put it there.

Éowyn went to her kin, and Tauriel took a seat among Thranduil's advisors. Only when the king himself had sat did Lord Elrond speak.

"I have seen things on this journey," he said, "that I wish I need not speak of. They are worse than anything I have ever witnessed in all the long years of my life." He fell silent a moment, and sighed. "The dead are not the only threat," he went on. "Nor are they the worst. I left Imladris with two thousand people. Fewer than half have survived

"The dead were much fewer once we had crossed the Misty Mountains. We had thought to have left them behind entirely, but found the woodmen fared no better than we. There were no survivors, but there were not so many dead as to be undefeatable. Indeed, we dispatched them all with no loss on our side."

He paused again, and Tauriel sensed Thranduil's impatience. Miraculously, however, he said nothing, simply waiting for Lord Elrond to continue in his own time.

"There were more," he said at last. "Far more Edain than could have dwelt in the small settlements, and most were doubles of the dead we had already destroyed. But these were not like the dead, and could not be destroyed."

"What do you mean?" Thranduil asked. "Were they like the Nazgûl?"

Elrond shook his head. "No. Worse. They looked like the living, but our weapons did nothing to them, and the very feel of them…it was worse than the dead, worse even than the Dark Lord. I know not what they are, but they are nothing of this world. They are an abomination the like of which I have never seen, and hope to never see again. King Thranduil, if they reach your fortress, we are all doomed. We might be able to barricade the gates against them, but we would starve."

Tauriel still wasn't sure how the hadn't starved already – and the addition of nearly a thousand mouths wasn't going to help. It didn't look as though Lord Elrond's party had a single bit of food left.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "It will not come to that," he said. "The forest is perhaps less treacherous than it was, but we can easily make it so again. We will find a way to defeat this – all of it."

It was a marked change from his attitude the previous night, but it was a welcome one, and it would seem Tauriel was not the only one who thought so: Lady Galadriel gave her a brief glance, and there was warmth in her clear eyes, though her expression was grave.

A knock sounded at the door, accompanied by furious whispering. Nobody would dare interrupt this meeting without great need, but the guards must have judged it great enough, for the door opened to admit Thalion, one of the youngest of the guard. He was pale, but there was an air of excitement mingled with his obvious worry.

"My lords, my lady, someone has arrived," he said, the words a rush. "Two halflings who claim to have been sent with weapons to aid us."

"Frodo," Lady Galadriel said, and something in her countenance lifted.

"Frodo?" one of the halflings asked. "Frodo's here? What about Sam?"

"There are two," Thalion said. "Weak and hungry and half-sick. They are with the healers now."

"Can we see them?" the oldest halfling asked, already on his feet. "Trust that boy to survive this mess."

Tauriel wondered greatly just how two halflings could have managed that on their own. She supposed they would find out soon enough.

* * *

Aragorn could not recall the last time he'd felt so very relieved. Though he mourned the loss of those who had not survived the journey from Imladris, Elrond and Arwen were safe now, as was Bilbo, who had become dear to him over the years. Now Frodo and Sam had found them, somehow – though that also meant the Ring of Power had found them as well. That, however, could wait: he needed to see for himself that his small friends would be well. Eru knew what hardship they'd seen.

And yet, they should not be here. Even if they had survived the storm and the rise of the dead unscathed, they had been much further east than the rest of the company, who had only made it to Mirkwood so swiftly because of the Ents. Had the Eagles come to their aid? Aragorn could not think of any other explanation.

He was not alone, when he strode toward the healers' halls. Legolas and Gimli followed, Merry and Pippin close behind them, while Gandalf helped Bilbo along. The rest of the Elves, noble and otherwise, trailed after them in a long line. It was an odd procession, and everyone in their path darted aside as they approached.

By now, most of the healers' beds were empty – all but the weakest of the Rohirrim had been moved to their own room. Those that remained watched curiously as they passed, clearly aware that something important had happened, or was happening, or was about to happen. Until he had spoken to Frodo, he wasn't going to say a word, and he doubted anyone else would, either.

The hobbits had been taken to one of the private rooms, and had at least had time to wash and change their clothes. Both were badly sunburned, their lips blistered from heat and dehydration, but they did not look like they had walked the length of the Anduin and then some. Something had aided them, and he wanted to know what.

Sam, seated on the bed with his feet swinging, was wolfing a bowl of stew; beside him, Frodo at more sedately. Both grinned when their companions entered, as though all their care had dropped away. Only hobbits, Aragorn thought. Only hobbits could adapt so swiftly and so easily.

"You're alive!" Sam cried, barely pausing to swallow before he spoke. He grinned at them, his expression as warm and simple as a sunbeam, and Aragorn didn't think he was the only one who relaxed on sight of it. Whatever the pair had endured, it had not dampened Sam's spirit.

Frodo too seemed different, though he was more subdued than Sam. There was a lightness to him that had not been there since before they left Rivendell, as though a great burden had been lifted from him. _That_ struck Aragorn as rather ominous, because it suggested he no longer bore the Ring.

"Of course we're alive," Pippin said, sounding almost offended. "What else would we be?"

"I'd rather not say," Sam said, a little of his exuberance dimming. "We've a tale to tell and no mistake, and we were given some things to pass on." He stretched out his left leg, pointing with his foot at a tall sword leaned up against the wall. "She said don't try to use it yet, though. There's something else, too." He set his bowl aside and hopped off the bed to rummage through his discarded clothes.

"Sam," Frodo warned.

Sam froze. "Right. Lady, I have something else, but I'm only meant to give it to you. She was clear enough on that."

"She?" Elrond prompted.

"It was a woman that brought us here. She says all this – the storm and the dead and all, I mean – were her sister's fault. She threw a curse and it hit the wrong world, but what we've been given should help us."

"She would not come herself?" King Thranduil questioned, sounding annoyed.

"She can't," Frodo said. "She says her world has its own war on the way." His eyes flitted over the crowd – far too many, for such a small room. "I suppose I can tell everyone, since it's over and done, but the Ring is destroyed, through no effort of mine."

"And with it, Mordor," Lady Galadriel said quietly. "I have seen it, though I do not know how it could be."

"Sharley's sister," Sam said. "That's her name, the woman we saw – Sharley. She says her sister's a right nightmare."

_That_ was a sobering thought. Sauron was a Maia, the greatest of Morgoth's servants. Anything that could topple him so easily was beyond a nightmare. Aragorn glanced at Elrond, who looked graver than ever.

"Let me see the sword, Samwise," Galadriel said. Though he seemed hesitant, he handed it to her, hands trembling as he did so.

It was a very long sword, forged for someone tall. The scabbard was plain dark leather, old and worn, and the hilt was without ornamentation of any kind. Such a simple weapon Aragorn had seldom seen, yet there was a strange, unsettling aura of raw power about it. It was not an evil weapon, but in the wrong hands it could do great evil indeed.

_That is why none save one can wield it._ Galadriel's voice was warm in his mind. _I do not yet know who that one will be, but this weapon could destroy any whom it did not wish to use it._

"This is no mere weapon," she said aloud. "Thranduil, you must keep it safe, until we discover who is to bear it. You say the creatures you saw could not be destroyed," she added, turning to Elrond. "This, I think, could do so. There is power to it the like of which I have never felt. Only Fëanor himself could have crafted such a weapon."

No scholar of Elvish history would find _that_ comforting, but Aragorn trusted Galadriel. If there was even the slightest hint of malice in the sword, she would have felt it.

Frodo went still. "Lord Elrond, the things you saw – did they look like the living?"

"Yes," Elrond said slowly, his grey eyes sharp. "What do you know of them?"

"Sharley called them Memories," Frodo replied. "She said that when some great evil befalls a place, it can imprint itself – and that if enough people die in fear and pain, it can create Memories. They are creatures of her world – I think they must have come with the curse.

"Will that sword kill them?" Celeborn asked.

"I hope so," Frodo sighed. "What we saw of Sharley's world was a wasteland. It looked as though some terrible war had already happened long ago, and if they won, it wasn't by much. I think her sister would see the same happen to us."

Galadriel set the sword aside. "When you have rested, come to me," she said. "Both of you. I would speak with you further." By which she meant, Aragorn was sure, that she would like to look in their minds, and see that world for herself.

"We will, my Lady," Sam promised.

"I believe we could all use some rest," Elrond said, and indeed he looked ready to collapse. Elves needed little sleep, but he looked as though he had not had any in weeks.

"Come, my Lady," Tauriel said, appearing at Arwen's elbow as if by magic. "We have rooms for all of you."

Arwen gave him one last weary look, though she also managed a smile before she followed Tauriel. She was safe now, and would be well cared for, and now, finally, he felt he could breathe.

* * *

Merry and Pippin weren't happy about being ushered out of Frodo and Sam's room, but they went, towing Bilbo with them. Neither knew what to make of such odd and unsettling news – it called for beer, and lots of it. As there was no beer to be had, some of that potent Elvish wine would have to suffice.

The kitchens were busy, but none of the Elves paid them any mind. They knew well enough where the wine was kept, so they led Bilbo through the press. He looked, they noticed, strangely nostalgic – but then, perhaps it was not so strange. According to his stories, he'd led the Dwarves through here, down to the cellar to make their escape. He actually smiled as they descended the steps, running his hand along the wall until they reached the great wine casks.

"Well," Pippin said, knocking the bung out of a fresh barrel, "we're all here, and that's something. I just wonder about the Shire."

"I don't," Bilbo said, holding out a cup. "They're a sensible lot – they'd have all gone inside when the storm hit, safe underground. There's the High Hay between the Shire and Bree, to keep anything unsavory out. They're probably better off than anyone else in Middle-Earth – maybe even than us, since they're home."

Pippin wished he was home. He couldn't help but worry – but the wine dulled that, along with so much else. He could only be grateful that the all the Fellowship was safe, and Bilbo, and Lord Elrond and his people.

And yet he was oddly restless. The halls of the Wood-Elves were vast and fair, but to him they were confining. Legolas said that they would soon send out a party to see how Erebor and Dale fared. The ravens had brought good tidings, but Gimli wanted to see for himself, and there was a wish to trade supplies. Pippin wanted to go with them, if anyone would let him. Even Lord Elrond's talk of those Memories wasn't enough to dissuade him. And he doubted he was the only one.

* * *

Pippin will in fact not be the only one who wishes to venture out into the world. What they will find there, however, may make them regret it.


	6. The Decision

Sam slept better and more deeply than he had since before they'd left Rivendell. After weeks of sleeping on hard ground, the Elvish bed was soft as a dream. He woke without a crick in his neck, and when he rose, the Elves brought him as nice a breakfast as anyone could ask for.

Mister Frodo was still asleep, but that was no surprise – he'd carried that filthy thing with him for months. It only stood to reason he wouldn't recover straightaway. But they were safe now; Sam need not worry about him so much

They'd have to go see the Lady Galadriel soon, and while he wanted to go, he also didn't. Everything about that world and that Sharley woman made him powerful uneasy, but they had to tell everything they knew, if it was to be any use at all.

He pushed his empty plate away with a contented sigh. It was wonderfully cool in here, after such much time in the baking sun. The fire had gone dark in the grate, and the only light came from a lamp high on the wall – a lamp that somehow seemed to glow like a small sun itself. He wanted to know what other wonders these halls might contain. Hopefully they could explore, once they'd spoken to Lady Galadriel.

* * *

Galadriel was troubled, but for the first time since this nightmare began, faint hope grew in her mind.

Frodo and Samwise had no way of knowing just what manner of gift they had been given in that sword. The more she looked at it, the more she doubted even her uncle could have crafted its like. The weapon didn't look old, but the power it contained was ancient even by her measure. She had no dared draw the blade, but she did not need to see it to know that it was beyond compare.

How they were to find the one who would wield it, she did not yet know. She hoped they would have time. Thranduil seemed content to let her do as she would with it – not that she could do much.

Tauriel rapped on the doorframe. "My Lady, Frodo and Samwise are awake. Shall I send for them?"

Galadriel went to her, setting the sword aside. "Yes," she said. "How is my granddaughter?"

"Lady Arwen? She is resting, as are her people. They may well sleep for some time yet, but they are comfortable."

"You have my gratitude," Galadriel said. "I had hoped to gather my family together again in time, but this is not how I wished to do it." And Elladan and Elrohir were still out there somewhere, in the vastness of a world turned to nightmare.

"I know, my Lady. The reunion of the Elves in Middle-Earth should not have come about this way. But we are here, and Edain survive in our halls and in Erebor. Perhaps the Last Alliance was not to be the last after all." With those words, she left to gather the hobbits.

"I can hardly believe she is related to my uncle," Galadriel said, when Thranduil drifted in through the far door.

"You have never seen her angry," Thranduil said, a trace of amusement in his voice. "You would well believe it then. I know not how many generations removed she is from Fëanor, but the temperament, it would seem, is hereditary. She seems to have not inherited any of their truly lesser qualities, at least."

"You know nothing of her parents?"

"They were both dead when I found her," he said, pouring them each a flagon of cool water. "She was very young, and I believe has deliberately locked away their deaths. The only real family she has known are among those in these halls."

Galadriel gave him a curious, shrewd look as she took the flagon from him. "What would you have done, if she had grown into someone like my uncle?"

Thranduil sighed. "I do not know. Banished her, and spent the rest of my life wondering when she would retaliate. Fortunately, that was not necessary."

"She will want to go with the party that scouts for Erebor."

He sighed again. "I know, and stopping her would be unwise. In light of Elrond's news, I am not allowing anyone far outside until we find the one who will wield that sword." He looked down at it, his expression unimpressed. "Have you any thoughts?"

"Perhaps. First I must speak with Frodo and Samwise, and your presence will only unnerve them," she said firmly.

Thranduil actually laughed. "Do as you must. I will go to Elrond – there must be more he can tell me, now that he is rested. I would know all that can be known of these creatures that might besiege my halls." He left with a slight bow, and Galadriel shook her head. Of course it would take the world ending to put Thranduil in a good humor.

* * *

Elrond was still very weary, but only in spirit. His body at least had rested well, but never had he felt such grief. Losing Imladris had been difficult, but a new home could always be made. Losing so many of his people, however, stirred memories he would rather have left buried.

Elves were not capable of truly forgetting, but he had locked away much of the Last Alliance, and a good many years of what preceded it. His life had been peaceful until the Ring was found, and now it was all but shattered. Again. Arwen was safe, but he could only hope his sons had been somewhere remote and uninhabited when the storm h it. Would they know to come to Thranduil's kingdom? He hoped so.

Thranduil had clearly been expecting them. Elrond's rooms were richly appointed: in addition to the large bed, there was a green and brown brocade sofa before the fireplace, and a vast oak desk not unlike the one in his study in Imladris. With it came ink, quills, and reams of parchment, all tucked neatly into the drawers.

The only difficult thing was the lack of windows. The lamps on the wall mimicked sunlight, and there was nothing in the least stuffy or musty, but he could not escape the knowledge that he was underground. He wondered how long it would be, before that stopped feeling unnatural.

A knock sounded at his door. It was Erestor, who looked every bit as haunted as Elrond felt. "My lord, I have been tallying figures," he said, unrolling a length of parchment on the desk. "Thranduil was low enough on food before our arrival. I know there seems to be nothing to hunt, but we must gather what plants we are able, if we are to survive the winter. Perhaps some fish have survived in Long Lake or its tributaries."

"We cannot go anywhere yet," Elrond said. Erestor was right, but the mere thought of venturing out into the world again almost made his skin crawl. He, who had faced some of the greatest evils Middle-Earth had to offer, was even yet gripped by lingering fear. "We must ask the Ents for aid, if they would give it. Even the Memories would have a difficult time truly harming them." Thank Ilúvatar and all the Valar that Fangorn had brought his people. The Memories were alien to this world; perhaps the Ents would be too alien to _them_. "Where is Arwen?"

"With Estel, my Lord," Erestor said. "She rested well. I believe Bilbo is with them."

That brought a smile to Elrond's face, though it was a slight one. Bilbo had, after all, spent several invisible weeks wandering Thranduil's halls; he was no doubt showing off his knowledge of the place, dragging Estel and Arwen after him.

Estel and Arwen. It did not look as though there would now be any Gondor to need a king, which had been his stipulation for allowing their marriage. It would be needlessly cruel to deny them now, and _someone_ ought to find a little happiness in these dark times. He would need to have a word with them both, once things were more settled. And a further word with Thranduil, though _that_ he did not look forward to.

The pair of them, as well as Galadriel and Celeborn, were all used to running their own realms. He could not imagine Thranduil would be gracious about having so many guests for very long – losing his parents as well as his wife had broken him, and Elrond had had a few private doubts about his willingness to accept refugees at all. The fact that he had prepared for them so well was a surprise, but one Elrond would forever be grateful for. If Thranduil's inevitable abrasiveness was the price they had to pay, so be it.

"I ought to warn you, my lord – Glorfindel has gone to inspect the armory," Erestor said, a hint of dryness in his tone.

A less dignified Elf might have groaned. The nightmares they had endured had not dimmed the balrog-slayer's light, at least, but Elrond had little doubt that idleness would soon begin to chafe him. If he was not careful, he was going to get himself killed. Again. "Then we had best find him, before he drives the armorers to distraction."

* * *

Bilbo was in fact having a grand time. Old he might be, but he was a hobbit, and was thus tougher than old leather – a single night's rest had been enough to restore him. He thought, not without merit, that a distraction would do his friends some good, and as a result he had not only Estel and Lady Arwen, but Merry and Pippin in tow as well.

"I didn't really dare sleep, you know," he said, as they passed a rushing waterfall. "Too afraid I'd be found. That ring might have turned out to be a blasted nuisance, but it saved me then – and the dwarves, and Erebor, come to that." Thranduil certainly would never have willingly let them out, and then who knew what old Smaug might have got up to. Not bad, for a hobbit.

"You must have been stealthy indeed, to sneak food from the larder," Legolas said, appearing from behind a pillar. "Evading so many Elves for weeks, even while invisible, is no mean trick."

That pleased Bilbo immensely, though it was also not strictly true: yes, many Elves lived in the caverns, but the caverns were very big. It wasn't as though he'd constantly risked being trampled underfoot.

"You have no idea how long my father was irked about that," Legolas added, laughing. "Irked and impressed. It took forty years before he was satisfied that our security was enough. And then we lost Gollum. I have never seen him in such a rage – _ever_."

On the whole, Bilbo was glad he had missed that. Thranduil was a good King and a good Elf, but he could also be terrifying.

Gollum. He still pitied the creature, even after all the trouble he had caused. Could he have survived the storm? Bilbo wouldn't put it past him. If he lived, would he recover some measure of his former self, now that the Ring was destroyed? They would likely never know.

Legolas cocked his head to one side, listening, and the Lady Arwen looked torn between amusement and exasperation.

"What is it?" Pippin asked.

"Glorfindel found the armory," Legolas said, mirth dancing in his eyes, "and Lord Elrond found Glorfindel."

Aragorn looked somewhat pained, but Bilbo burst out laughing. Glorfindel was a hero of singular magnificence, but he was also notoriously impatient for an Elf. It would not be long before their safe inactivity began to grate on him, and since Lord Elrond would never allow him outside until the sword had chosen its wielder, he might well be driven to distraction – and take everyone else with him.

Elrond's voice floated through the cavern. "We are _guests_ here, Glorfindel. You cannot do as you once did in Imladris, if we are ever to maintain King Thranduil's good will. See to our own weapons, if you must."

Glorfindel grumbled, but good-naturedly. "I would like to have a look at that sword," he said. "We will never find its wielder while it sits locked away."

"Lady Galadriel has charge of it," Elrond said, "and she will _keep_ charge of it."

Arwen looked closer to laughing outright than Bilbo had ever seen her. Aragorn was attempting – and failing – to look stern, but Legolas wasn't even trying. Merry and Pippin were unsuccessfully smothering chuckles, and Bilbo only wished Frodo were here, too. He needed to see the boy, once Galadriel had spoken to him and he had more time to rest.

* * *

Frodo already felt better, though he was still weary in spirit and in body. Last night was the first time in weeks that he had properly slept; the soft bed and cool sheets had been a blessing beyond measure. After a light breakfast and another good wash, he almost felt ready to face Lady Galadriel.

He knew that she was far too skilled in the mental arts to do him any harm, but still it made him nervous, having his mind so laid bare. He was certain she could see every shameful, selfish thought he had ever had. At least there was nothing shameful in his brief trip through that odd world, and surely she could learn more from seeing it within his mind than he had from witnessing it in reality. The thought was distinctly comforting. No longer did the fate of the world rest upon his shoulders: he was one again only a hobbit.

The Elf-maid Tauriel came to collect them, walking slowly enough that they need not hurry to keep up. "I hear you speak Sindarin, Master Baggins," she said. "Do you, Samwise?"

"No, my lady," Sam said, a little shame-faced. "I never had the sort of education Mister Frodo had."

Tauriel laughed. "I am no lady," she said. "Just Tauriel will do. There is another who knows nothing of our tongue, but seeks to learn it – perhaps you should speak with her, when things have settled. Learning something new is less daunting when you have company."

It was not a bad idea. Sam's education had been sparse, but he was smarter than he gave himself credit for. And if there was another who would be just as ignorant of the language as he, he would not be so easily certain he was too much of a fool to grasp it. "I might join you," Frodo said. "I don't speak it near as well as I ought." While he was not quite so out of his depth here as Sam, he was still rather lost, and if he was not careful, he would remain so.

Sam looked uncertain, but not displeased. "Do you really think I could?"

"Of course you could, Sam," Frodo assured him. "I'll help you."

"You both ought to do what Lady Éowyn is doing," Tauriel said, leading them a up a long flight of steps. "She is recording the lore and stories of her people. You are very far from home – it may be long before you can return." At least she did not say that their home might not longer exist.

At last they stopped before a massive oak door, which Tauriel rapped on. It was answered by Lady Galadriel, who beckoned them inside. Tauriel left them with a short bow.

This chamber was unlike the healing wards or the rooms beside them. It was vast and airy, with walls and pillars carved like trees and a fireplace so large they could have stood in it. A table the size of a small raft stood in the center of the floor; it looked like a section of the trunk of some massive tree, polished until it shone. On it was laid the long sword, as well as an assortment of maps and half-spent ink-pots.

The Lady smiled at them, warm and radiant, and poured each a flagon of cool, sweet water. "I must see what it is you saw," she said. "It might be that I can perceive things within your minds that you cannot. This will neither hurt nor harm you."

"We trust you, Lady," Frodo said. "Maybe what we saw will not prove so strange to you."

* * *

Thranduil was not amused to find Glorfindel had been to the armory, but he was also not surprised. The balrog-slayer was Elrond's problem, however, and not one Thranduil envied. For now, Glorfindel had been fobbed off on the guards, both Woodland and Palace, who he was no doubt putting through their paces. That was probably a blessing, as it would seem impossible to be over-prepared in this terrible new world.

Elrond was summoned to one of Thranduil's smaller council chambers, with Erestor and Lindir in tow. Knowing how reticent all three could be, Thranduil poured them goblets of Dorwinion that was only slightly watered.

"Tell me of the Memories," he said, taking a seat with his own goblet. "All that you have learned."

Lindir shuddered, very subtly. Elrond didn't, but he looked as though he wanted to. "At first glance, they are indistinguishable from the living," he said. "The way they move, however, is wholly unnatural – too smoothly even for an Elf, and their eyes are blank yet filled with malice. There is an air of malevolence about them to rival the Dark Lord – which is odd, as they do not appear to possess magic of any kind. They exist, and thus far have proven indestructible, but they seem to want nothing more complex than the brutal death of the living.

"They do not speak, but they are not mindless beasts. It would seem they retain what knowledge they had in life, for many of them fought as Men do. Which has terrible implications."

Thranduil did not need to ask why. If the Memories of Men were dangerous, Elven Memories would be far worse. Their warriors were, after all, very well-trained in the art of killing, possibly better so than any others in all of Middle-Earth. He hoped that whoever was to wield that sword was also an Elf, or they were doomed.

"I mean to fortify the forest," he said, sipping his wine. "At the very least, we may slow them down. Do you think they would attack the Ents?"

Elrond said nothing, so Erestor answered. "No. Of course I cannot be sure, but I do not believe the Memories would attack something they could not eat."

Well, there was a revolting picture, but it was useful. The Ents were quite unlike any other creatures in all of Middle-Earth, and thus it was possible that the Memories, being creatures from another world, would not know what to do with them. "At least we have one advantage. If we can ring the forest, perhaps we can keep the Memories at bay until we know what to do about them. One person with a sword would not be enough – not even one such as Glorfindel. And there is no guarantee the sword would choose him."

"It would be far too easy if it did," Elrond sighed. "We should gather all the best warriors in our three realms, and see which it decides upon. And we must do it soon."

"I will talk to Lady Galadriel, when she is free," Thranduil said. "She may have some insight." He certainly hoped so.

* * *

What Galadriel found in Frodo's mind was curious, and what she discovered in Samwise's even more so. It told her much, but also little; she gained few new insights into what they faced, but she thought she knew who the sword should be given to. And almost no one was going to like it, if for different reasons.

The little bottle Samwise gave her was intriguing, if also baffling. She could not identify its contents, but the bottle was warm, as though it had sat long in sunlight, and when she uncorked it, it smelled of heat and spices she could not identify. She did not know what it was, but after all she had witnessed in the hobbits' minds, she thought she knew what it was for. And if she was right, it would be a blessing beyond what any of them could have hoped for.

"You have done well," she told the hobbits. "Do as you will, now. You are safe here."

Both looked as though they could not quite believe it, but they would, in time. They could be once more as they should be, without undue care laid upon them.

When they left, she summoned a servant to fetch Tauriel. While she had seen into her potential sword-bearer's mind, Tauriel knew the woman better, and could give more information as to her character before Galadriel summoned her as well.

"Can I help, my lady?" Tauriel asked, not quite managing to keep the mingled confusion and curiosity from her voice.

Galadriel bade her sit. "Tell me of your friend, Lady Éowyn," she said, shifting the sword closer.

Tauriel blinked, but did not ask. "She is not what I would have expected of an Edain woman," she said. "Certainly not like those of Dale and Esgaroth. What she wants is much like what I wanted, when I was younger – she wishes to be a warrior, but her kin do not agree. She has spoken little of her past, but a shadow lingers on her heart that I think was there before the storm."

"Would she be a good warrior?"

Tauriel nodded. "I think so. She has strength of mind and will, if only her kin would let her truly use either. I do not know if it is because she is royalty or Edain, or both, but her kin would see her be all but useless, trapped in duties she would loathe."

Galadriel smiled. Yes, those two were akin to one another. "I will need her, her King and brother, and King Thranduil," she said. "In that order." If Éowyn's kin were to protest too vehemently (and Galadriel had little doubt they would), she would simply hurl Thranduil at them. He was, after all, their host; if he were to side with Éowyn, there was little Théoden and Éomer could do about it. Both of them meant well, but the plain truth was that neither of them seemed to _know_ Éowyn at all. That would need to change, and swiftly.

Tauriel must have guessed her purpose, for she visibly fought a smile of her own. "Yes, my lady. Shall I wait a while, after I bring Éowyn?"

"That might be wise. What I would ask of her is no easy thing, and she will need time to come to terms with it."

"She is to have the sword, isn't she?" Tauriel asked.

"I believe so. She will not have had the amount of training she will need – I will speak to Thranduil, so that you might see to that."

"It will be too long for her," Tauriel said, eying the scabbard. Éowyn was not a short woman, but the sword had been forged for someone at least six feet tall. "And I doubt such an artifact could be re-forged. I will have to think on teaching her some way to work around that."

"Do not let Glorfindel know of this yet," Galadriel said. "He would try to take over her training, and he can be somewhat overwhelming." Tauriel had almost certainly never met Glorfindel, but she had likely heard stories. Thranduil was not over-fond of him – not that Thranduil was over-fond of most people.

"I will not, my lady," Tauriel said, fighting a smile and losing. "I think I know where she is, so it should not take long to fetch her."

* * *

Éowyn had escaped to the library after breakfast. Some time among the books and scrolls might well do her good.

Éowyn loved her brother and her uncle, more than anything – she would gladly have given her life for them. What she was more and more unwilling to do was give her life _to_ them. She was tired of having her actions and choices dictated to her – especially because none of them were choices she wanted. The world had changed; duties she might have been expected to fulfill in Rohan were no longer necessary. Namely, marriage.

Never had she wanted to marry. It was simply yet another unpleasant duty she would likely have to endure someday, being traded for an alliance with another kingdom. Now, however, there _were_ likely no other kingdoms: there were only survivors, and no political alliance would need to be sealed by marriage. If anything, the survivors of Dale now living in Erebor were unlikely to want another mouth to feed. Éomer was the heir, the one who needed heirs of his own, but no mention was made of _his_ marriage. The discussion had soon devolved into a shouting match between her and her brother, and she had left in high dudgeon.

She did not wish to marry. She _would_ not marry, no matter what anyone else might order of her. In this place, with these people, she had a chance to make of her life what she wished, not what others demanded. Had she been the heir, things would have been quite different, but she was not, and they were not. She would calm herself among the books, and resist the urge to go hit something in the training halls. Just now she did not feel able to deal with other people.

So she gathered the manuscript she had been working on, and brought it to the desk she had used the day before, determined to write out more of Rohan's history. Unfortunately, in her frustration she broke two quills, and temporarily gave up.

"Éowyn?"

She looked up, and found Tauriel had entered with customary Elven silence.

"You look ready to murder someone."

"Almost," Éowyn sighed. "This is one of the times I wish I was no manner of royalty."

Tauriel arched an eyebrow, but thankfully did not press. "You may soon have an excuse to avoid it," she said. "The Lady Galadriel would like to see you."

Éowyn could not help but be wary. Though the Elves had proved quite different than the stories on which she had been raised, the fact remained that her childhood had been filled with whispered tales of the perilous Golden Wood and its Lady. Such instinct would not be changed overnight.

Still, she was curious as to what the Lady of Lothlórien could want with her. She tidied away her book and ink, setting aside the broken quills, and followed Tauriel through the vast, echoing caverns. This was certainly an effective distraction from her wrath. She did not think she would ever fully get used to the strange, fey beauty of this place – nor did she want to. Not since she was a child had she felt such a sense of wonder, and if she had to lose her entire country, she would at least keep this, if she could.

The walk was long, and several times they had to weave through crowds. Lord Elrond might have lost many of his people, but those who survived were more than enough to fill the space that had remained empty.

Strangely, such a press of people was heartening. It was a very tangible and forceful reminder that not only were they alive, they could stay alive. The refugees from Rivendell had survived a nightmare the like of which Éowyn could scarcely conceive. It gave her hope that the Elven-King's stronghold and the Kingdom of Erebor might not be the only kingdoms left functioning in Middle-Earth. If the cyclone had not reached Gondor, Minas Tirith might yet endure, though she did not think there was any way they would ever truly know.

She drew a deep breath when they reached the Lady Galadriel, composing herself. Much though she disliked it at the moment, she was a daughter of kings, and must not let herself be daunted.

The Lady's smile was welcoming as she stepped through the door. There was about Galadriel a kind of warmth such as Éowyn had never experienced, even from the other Elves. Perhaps it was from her immense age – Éowyn had heard she was one of the oldest Elves in Middle-Earth, and they could live for thousands of years.

"You seem troubled, Lady Éowyn," she said, her eyes flickering briefly to Tauriel, as if seeking explanation.

"It is nothing to burden you with, my lady. There are some things upon which my family and I vehemently disagree."

"I fear I may be about to give you another. You saw this yesterday," Galadriel said, gesturing to the sword on the table. "Having searched the minds of Frodo and Samwise, I believe it is meant for you. The one who gifted it to them has, I think, much akin with you, and the sword might well seek another like its master. Mistress."

Éowyn stared at it, her pulse quickening. Wielding it would be a grave responsibility, and more dangerous than anything she had yet done or endured – but it would confer on her a freedom she had only dreamed of. If she were truly the only one who could use it, Uncle and Éomer could no longer try to force her into their well-meaning box. She could be like Tauriel, who answered to very few.

"May I?" she asked, reaching for the sword.

"Of course," Galadriel said.

Éowyn felt the sheer power in the sword as soon as her fingers brushed the hilt. It tingled up her arm and all through her, hot as lightning but without pain. It only intensified when she drew the sword, bringing with it a strength that was positively inhuman. The blade was as plain as the hilt and scabbard, without ornamentation of any kind: this was a weapon crafted purely for function.

"Yes," Galadriel said quietly. "Yes, it is yours. Tauriel, I believe it is time to gather the others."

* * *

At least Éowyn will have a good time. God help her once Glorfindel finds out, though; Galadriel's right about him being overwhelming.


	7. The Training

You know how I said they'd be going out this chapter? I lied again. There's just so much they have to put together first, if they don't want to all die before they've gone five miles.

In which Pippin bonds with Glorfindel, Théoden and Éomer get tag-teamed by Galadriel, Éowyn, and Thranduil, and Legolas actually pays Gimli a compliment.

* * *

Pippin knew that if he ever wanted to be allowed out (whenever they went), he needed to be more proficient with his sword. Accordingly, he went to the training halls, hoping someone would take pity on him. Boromir and Aragorn had taught both him and Merry some, but they had not had much practice.

Thought of Boromir sent choking sorrow into his throat. What with all that had happened, he hadn't been able to think much on Boromir's sacrifice. He hoped to whatever Valar might be listening that Boromir had been dead too long to rise with all the others who had perished in the storm.

"Your heart is too heavy for the training ground, little one."

Pippin blinked, and looked up – very far up. He vaguely recognized the Elf who addressed him as one he'd seen in Rivendell, but didn't know his name. While his face was not precisely merry, it was not pinched or stern with grief. "I thought I could use some practice," he said, "but then I thought of the friend who first taught me. He died some days before the storm." He fell silent a moment. "I'd never seen anyone die before. Not like that." Gandalf had fallen, gone in a blink, but Boromir had fought and bled and, so far as Pippin knew, died alone. He hoped Aragorn and the others had at least been able to give him a decent burial.

"I wish I could tell you it grows easier," the Elf said, "but it does not. Losing your companions always hurts. But a part of him lives still, in the things he taught you – perhaps showing me what they are will help."

Pippin nodded, rallying himself. Though it had been half a game, Boromir had drilled him in the proper fighting stance, and painstakingly instructed him how to hold his sword so that he would not lose it after the first blow. Surprisingly, he had known how to compensate for a hobbit's height – he had, he told them, trained with his younger brother when they were children, and that for many years his brother was rather undersized, not hitting a proper growth spurt until much later than was normal for Men. It meant that Pippin knew, in theory, how to use a taller person's height against them.

He wasn't surprised, though, that the Elf managed to disarm him so easily. He didn't let it discourage him, though; he did his best to shut out the din of the others sparring, the clash of swords and mingled catcalls. _Think of the sword as an extension of yourself_, Boromir had told him, so he tried, and did his best to mimic the Elf's smooth movements. Hobbits were lighter on their feet than Men, and a good deal more nimble, so he did his best to duck under the Elf's reach.

Naturally, he failed every time, and soon began to feel like a fool. "I can't do this," he said, throwing up his hands. He was panting like a dog on a hot day, heart thundering in his chest. "I'll never beat you."

"You need a better opponent," Legolas said, nearly frightening the life out of Pippin with his sudden appearance. "_Nobody_ beats Glorfindel. Until Gandalf, he was the only person in Middle-Earth to have fought a Balrog and won. Even if he did die trying."

Pippin blinked. "I didn't know Elves came back from the dead," he said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve.

"We do – just not to Middle-Earth, normally. The Valar love this one," Legolas said, sounding a trifle exasperated. "They won't do it a second time, Glorfindel, so try not to get killed when we go out."

"That's why I'm here," Pippin admitted. "I want to go, too – but after my poor showing here, I wouldn't blame anyone who wouldn't let me."

"Why would you want to go?" Glorfindel asked, with genuine curiosity.

Pippin had no one answer. "I just feel like I should," he said. "I need to see what is happening out there, but I know I'd just be a burden."

Legolas looked at him thoughtfully. "Not necessarily," he said. "We may have need of someone as small as you, if there are tight places that need exploring. But Pippin, you heard what Lord Elrond said about the Memories – there is a real chance that no one who goes out there will come back."

"I know. And that should terrify me, but it doesn't. I don't want to die, but I can't stay hiding in here just for fear of it."

"He started mimicking my footwork on instinct," Glorfindel said. "He has the makings of a warrior, if he lives long enough to become one."

"Not a thing that is a surety for any of us, in these dark times," Legolas mused. "Well, we cannot truly plan anything yet. Pippin, find yourself several opponents. Glorfindel is an impossible yardstick by which to measure. There are more I need to speak with, before we can begin putting a party together."

He left Pippin much heartened. When he had gone, Pippin turned to Glorfindel. "So how did you kill a Balrog?"

* * *

As predicted, Théoden and Éomer were not at all pleased upon discovering Éowyn was to be the sword-bearer. Théoden, longtime King, was dignified about it, but Éomer was markedly less so.

"The sword has chosen her," Galadriel said. "She is to be its bearer. Your sister is a woman grown, Lord Éomer. She is no longer under your control."

"She is a princess of Rohan," Éomer said, "not a wildling woman. She has a duty-"

"Yes," Éowyn cut in, grey eyes blazing. "I do. I have a duty to wield this blade in defense of all who live here. And if you try to tell me you only want what is best for me one more time, I will hit you," she added. "Who are you, to know such a thing? Not once have either of you asked me what _I_ want. I love you both, but after this morning's discussion, I do not even want to look at you. Once upon a time there were dull, odious duties I must have endured, but the world is changed. This task only I can fulfill, and perhaps have the chance to do something worthy of my line. I will be a warrior, not traded off like a commodity to be a brood-mare for someone I do not know."

That was a rather amazing amount of vitriol. Galadriel had not pried into Éowyn's mind; no wonder the woman was so angry.

Lord Éomer looked like he wanted to speak, but to his credit, he kept silent until he had formed something halfway diplomatic. "Sister, we would never have _ordered_ you to marry," he said, sounding wounded. "You know that. We merely thought-"

"Yes, you thought. _You_ thought, without bothering to consult me. Had you known me at all, you would know that I have never wished to marry. I do not want to be a wife or a mother, and if I were a man, no one would find my wish to remain unwed odd. You are the heir, Éomer – worry about your own marriage. I _will_ do this, whether either of you like it or not, because I am the only one who can."

"I see now why you have become such fast friends with Tauriel," Thranduil said, sweeping in with Tauriel at his side. King Théoden twitched, Lord Éomer jumped, and Éowyn's eyes widened. "I know Lady Éowyn is as a daughter to you, King Théoden, but as a parent, I can tell you that trying to stifle your adult children does not end well. Lady Éowyn is right – the sword has appointed her as its bearer, and thus this task falls to her. The fact that you dislike it changes nothing."

"How do we know the sword will not choose someone else?" Lord Éomer asked. "A true warrior?"

Tauriel shut her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Too late did Éomer realize his mistake. Éowyn looked two breaths away from murdering him where he sat, but there was hurt in her eyes, too.

Thranduil sighed. "Lord Éomer, I strongly suggest you re move yourself, before your sister does something she will later regret. And I even more strongly advise you to do so silently."

Éomer looked likely to protest, but Théoden laid a hand on his shoulder. "Go," he said. "Now is not the time."

Éomer went, casting a very guilty glance at Éowyn, who refused to look at him.

"Now that _that_ unpleasantness is out of the way, King Théoden, do you have any reasonable objection to Lady Éowyn's bearing of the sword? Be mindful that 'because she is female' is not a valid argument."

Éowyn shot Thranduil a deeply grateful look. She had clearly been more wounded by her brother's casual dismissal of her than she wanted to let on.

King Théoden sighed. "I would not wish this for her, whether she was man or woman," he said. "I lost my only son to battle. I would not lose my sister-daughter as well."

Éowyn's expression softened markedly – as did Thranduil's, surprisingly. "I know, Uncle," she said. "I do not seek death, but ever have the Riders risked their lives in defense of our people. We are Riders no more, but the necessity for warriors remains.

"Too long was I helpless, while Wormtongue poisoned your mind. I will never be so again. My life and my choices must be my own. Éomer is the heir – he is the one you should keep inside in safety, not me. Let him be married off to some stranger, and produce a brood of children. Let him see what it feels like, to have his entire life dictated by others."

Galadriel almost winced. Éowyn was truly furious with her brother – that was a rift that only time would mend, and even then it depended on Éomer managing to think before he spoke. They were dear to one another, beneath it all, but that only fueled Éowyn's wrath. Had she thought little of him, his ill-considered remark would not have hurt her so.

Thranduil blinked. "Your people still do that?" he asked, his disdain obvious. "Arrange marriages between two people who might love or loathe one another?"

"Do the Elves not do so?" Théoden asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"_No_," Thranduil said. "Our marriages last unto death, and we live for a very long time. None of us would want to spend thousands of years shackled to someone we do not love."

"'Shackled' is the right word," Éowyn muttered. "Is it considered odd among your people, if one does not marry?"

"It is unusual, but not unduly. Many warriors choose to never marry."

The look Éowyn gave Théoden was not precisely triumphant, but she clearly felt validated – possibly for the first time in her life. "I love you, Uncle," she said. "Truly I do, but I need you to accept that _I_ know what is best for myself, and what will make me happy. Nothing you and Éomer ever planned for me are either."

Théoden suddenly looked very old. "I never intended for you to be unhappy," he sighed.

"I know. You have always wished me joy, but I ought to have been born a man. Never have I found happiness in womanly things. There is no reason now for me to have to endure them."

"I had no idea you were so miserable," Théoden said, looking wretched.

"You would not have," Éowyn said gently. "I have never said anything. I knew my duty, and I would have done it, whatever the cost to myself. It is what those of our line have always done, but Uncle, I am saying something now. I hope you will understand. I do not wish to cause you pain, but neither you nor Éomer may govern my life anymore. I have a duty now that is worth something – and I am sorry, Uncle, but among our people, being some man's wife is all but worthless."

Her vehemence perturbed Galadriel. Wishing not to marry was one thing, but Éowyn spoke of marriage with a palpable loathing, and Galadriel wondered from whence it came. She did not think the Rohirrim themselves held their women in such low esteem; that was likely something twisted and magnified in Éowyn's own mind. It was probable that she had been told much of her life to be a lady, and thus developed a hatred of all that it was to be a woman.

That alone had not caused this amount of viciousness, however. Something else had happened to Éowyn, and Galadriel very much wanted to know what. Now was not the time to press, however. That was a conversation to be had in private.

"The plain truth, King Théoden, is that we need your sister-daughter, whether anyone likes it or not," Thranduil said. "Tauriel tells me she is already trained in the ways of a warrior, and we will train her further. She will not be thrown out into the world unprepared."

There was no real protest Théoden could make to that. He was Éowyn's kin, and he loved her dearly, but he was also a king and a pragmatist. Like it or not – and he clearly did not – he knew what had to be done.

"Very well," he sighed. "Be careful, Éowyn. Come back to us alive."

"You know I will, Uncle. I love you, and I love Éomer, though I would very much like to hit him. Please keep him away from me for a while, or I will not be responsible for my own actions."

Tauriel choked back a laugh, and Thranduil arched an eyebrow. Even Théoden managed a weary smile.

"If he is ever to be a king," he said, "I must teach him to think before he speaks."

"That would be wise," Thranduil said. "Lady Éowyn, I will have Glorfindel craft you a sword the length and weight of that one, to train with. Something tells me it should not be used lightly."

"You are very likely right," Galadriel said. "Tauriel, will you teach her?"

"I will, if my lord grants me time," Tauriel said, looking at Thranduil.

"Time you shall have, and you will not be the only one," he said. "You are short for an Elf, Tauriel. If Lady Éowyn is to fight Elvish Memories, she must learn to spar with an opponent taller than herself."

Tauriel glared at him, but said nothing, and Galadriel almost laughed. Tauriel _was_ small for one of the Eldar, a fact of which she had surely been repeatedly reminded. "Of course, my lord," she sighed. "I'll find Glorfindel."

Éowyn looked quietly delighted.

* * *

Frodo did not quite know what to do with himself. He was still unused to not having the weight of the Ring around his neck, to the idea that his quest had been completed for him.

Sharley had told him little of her sister – of the terrible power that could manage to topple the Dark Lord. He could only hope that she managed it because of the storm and the element of surprise, or he could not possibly see how they could win.

He didn't want to go to the library, peaceful though it would be. He needed to be around people, and so, Sam in two, he had an Elf direct him to the training halls. Unless he was very much mistaken, at least a few of the Fellowship would be there.

Mistaken he was not. The hall was packed and noisy, both Elves and the men of Rohan sparring with one another. Strangely, the sound of steel on steel was comforting, and the way Elves fought always did look almost like a dance. There was so very much_ life_ here, after he had spent what felt like an eternity surrounded by death.

Merry and Pippin were both attempting to battle a tall Elf Frodo vaguely recognized as Glorfindel. Legolas was watching them, clearly amused, while Gimli sat beside him and sharpened his axe. Frodo had little doubt that he would soon be grumbling about a lack of proper adversaries; using an axe against an Elf would be an exercise in frustration. And beside him, to Frodo's delight, was Bilbo. The old hobbit was smoking, legs stretched out in front of him, seemingly entirely at one with the world.

"Frodo!" he called, waving his pipe. "Come over here. These two might make a single warrior between them, given a hundred years."

"Oi!" Pippin protested, then yelped when Glorfindel smacked his leg with the flat of his blade. Merry tried to use the opportunity to get in a hit of his own, but Glorfindel brought his sword around and disarmed him without even looking.

"Make that two hundred," Bilbo said.

"Do not sell them short," Legolas laughed. "They are quite good for novices. I am certain Gimli could tell you that short stature can sometimes be an advantage in a fight."

Gimli eyed him suspiciously, as though unsure if he were being complimented or insulted, but Legolas's voice was sincere. _That_ had certainly changed – when last Frodo had seen them, the two did little more than tolerate each other.

He went to sit beside Gimli, Sam still in tow. "Lady Galadriel believes she has found the one who will bear the sword," he said. "It may be that you can soon send an expedition to Erebor."

"Did she say who it was?" he asked, looking as pleased as he could through his beard.

"No," Frodo said, "thought I'm sure we'll find out soon enough." It ought to make the most sense for it to go to someone like Glorfindel, but Sharley's world did not seem like it would have anyone like him. He was a great warrior, a classic shining hero, and that arid land, with its metallic air and dull red sky, was unlikely to produce such a figure. The sword belonged to Sharley; surely it would seek someone akin to her, if such a person could be found here.

"You look very thoughtful, Frodo," Legolas said.

"I am. I was thinking that our ways and our wars will not work now. Always we have known our enemies – who they are, and _what_ they are. Sauron and Morgoth we could predict, to an extent. Both wanted dominion, to enslave Middle-Earth, but from what Sharley said, the Mother wants to use our world in her own war. She cares nothing for what happens to us, which could be worse. If she does not want slaves, what is to stop her from simply killing us all?"

"The Memories," Sam said. "Aelis, the dead lady – when you were talking to Sharley, she said they're not loyal to anyone. They'll attack the Mother and her people just as readily as they'll attack us. If she's got an army and they find it, they'll eat it."

"That's a terrifying kind of blessing," Bilbo observed. "At least they are not only against us. Will they eat the dead?"

"I think so," Frodo said. "The dead were once alive, and there must still be some other facsimile of life still there, or they wouldn't move. I wish we knew just what caused it. Most of the wisest minds left in Middle-Earth are here. If we knew what caused it, we might know what to do about it."

"Perhaps we should catch one of the dead, on our return from Erebor," Glorfindel said. "If there is any way to kill them again aside from by sword or arrow, someone here could divine it."

"Be my guest," Legolas muttered.

* * *

The training hall tended to be occupied day and night, so that evening, with Lady Galadriel's permission, Tauriel took Éowyn to her garden.

The practice sword was easily put together, and Tauriel watched Éowyn heft it, familiarizing herself with its weight and balance. It would surely prove very awkward at first, which was why neither wanted an audience.

By now, Éowyn had mostly recovered from the effects of the deprivation she had suffered on her journey to the Woodland Realm, but she was still not as strong as she should be. The muscle was there – it just needed to be renewed.

It seemed a strange thing, preparing to spar in this garden. Before the Lórien Elves had arrived, it had been shut up for as long as Tauriel could remember. Lady Galadriel and her people had clearly been hard at work on it since it was opened, however; the grass was trimmed, the beds alive with all that had been salvaged from the gardens outside, both flower and vegetable. This was one of the few places that received natural light through the roof of the caverns; just now, moonlight washed the grass silver. Torches were lit here and there, enough that they could see what they were doing.

Éowyn looked grimly determined, and Tauriel did not wonder why. She knew what it was, to have to prove yourself, and Éowyn was no doubt all the more aware of it thanks to her history. That _someone_ had trained her was clear enough, just by watching the way she moved. Warriors were aware of the world around them in a way others weren't: always alert to potential threats, and ready to react to them.

"I know not how Edain warriors train," Tauriel said, drawing her own practice sword, "but I cannot imagine it is very much different form the way Elves do so. I think there is much I could teach you with smaller knives as well, such as I fight with."

"Just do not hand me a bow," Éowyn said dryly. "I would only make a fool of myself."

"I think we have enough archers," Tauriel said. "Now attack me. You need not worry you will break my neck, no matter how heavy that thing is."

It _was _heavy, and Tauriel could see how it strained Éowyn to control its swing. Nevertheless there was grace in it, and as much precision as her strength would allow, and it struck Tauriel's sword with such force that it almost drove her backward. If Éowyn had to, she could probably bludgeon someone to death with the real sword still in its scabbard.

Tauriel kept her own parries and attacks simple at first, allowing Éowyn to adjust to her weapon and evaluating her at the same time. Though she was tall for a woman, she was not built like the men of Rohan; she might benefit from more lessons in Elvish fighting techniques.

The weight behind her swings made her stagger at first, but she rapidly learned to compensate, though she was having less success adapting to the sword's length. The frustration in her eyes mounted when Tauriel disarmed her, and she let out an exasperated sigh.

"My arms and my back will hurt later," she said, shrugging in an attempt to loosen her shoulders. "I need to find a better way to move. None of my training was with such an outsized weapon, and little of my knowledge works with it."

"You move like a man," Tauriel said, trusting her not to take offense. "You were trained by men, I think – no one taught you there are easier ways for a female to do things." She picked up Éowyn's sword, hefting it. "You swing your blade from the shoulder like men do, but you would gain better leverage if you started lower and swung up – and you would do more damage to a taller opponent." Orcs tended to be taller than Tauriel – she spoke from experience. "I am going to have the cobblers fashion you boots. With how much this weighs, you will need to be able to pivot." What Edain lacked in grace they had to make up for in equipment, though she could hardly tell Éowyn that. "In a week, you and I are going to prove to that fool brother that you are a true warrior."

Éowyn's smile was downright wolfish.

* * *

Poor Éomer. He really should have thought before he spoke. He will pay for that dearly, before all is over.

Éowyn's utterly vehement hatred of marriage is headcanon, but I think it makes sense. Prior to meeting Faramir, I don't think the idea of marriage ever entered her head – even with Aragorn, she was following him more as a soldier than anything else, even if she was a little infatuated with him. Realistically, she would have been given to someone in marriage at some point, if Théoden hadn't got saddled with Wormtongue, and I could very easily see her resenting the idea. She's a woman who wants to win renown, to earn glory worthy of her ancestors, and if she'd been married off to somebody, that wouldn't have happened. Hence her reaction here.


	8. The Visitation

In which there is bonding, sparring, plotting, and Aragorn realizes that the end of the world has been a _good_ thing for a few of them.

* * *

Théoden was miserable.

Having so misjudged Éowyn shamed him, but it was simply the latest in a long line of his failures, stretching back over a decade now.

He was too restless to stay in his rooms, but neither could he bear company. Finding solitude here was now quite difficult, even at this late hour, for the Elves did not sleep as mortal Men did.

His wandering feet eventually carried him to the very furthest reaches of the caves – to a small waterfall that splashed into an equally small but noisy creek. But for his lantern, all was dark, which matched his bleak thoughts. He stared into the water, feeling more lost than he could ever remember.

"Do not curse yourself so, Théoden King."

He looked up, startled. Though he had not heard her approach, the Lady of Lórien stood before him. She carried no light, but there was a faint, pale radiance about her. "I am an old man and a fool," he said bitterly.

Her lips twitched into a faint smile. "To me you are not old," she said. "And while you have been misguided, you are not a fool. Your thoughts are simply trapped in the world that was, and long did you suffer under Saruman's power."

Théoden did not know how she could know that, but the ways of the Elves were mysterious. "My son died while I was in Wormtongue's thrall," he said, more bitterly still. "He died and I did nothing. Saruman made of me a puppet."

Lady Galadriel sat beside him, her bare white feet just touching the surface of the water. "There are few in this world who can resist the power of Saruman," she said. "Do not think ill of yourself because you could not. He fooled us all."

That…was oddly comforting, though he did not think it should be. "I cannot blame him for how badly I misjudged my sister-daughter."

"No," she said simply, "you cannot. But you know her better now, and dwelling on your mistake will not aid either of you. I know the ways of your people better than Thranduil – I know you wished to use her marriage to forge an alliance with what remains of Dale. But the world is changed now: we are all allies already." She gave him a shrewd, piercing look. "You feel now like a king without a kingdom. Lord Elrond, my husband, and I understand that feeling quite well. But your people remain your own, and always will. It is you they will look to, not Thranduil. You are not useless, whatever you might think."

"Are you reading my thoughts, my lady?"

She smiled, and it was gentle and warm, like a summer dawn. "I do not need to," she said. "You wear them openly. You must understand, King Théoden, I am the oldest Elf in Middle-Earth, but for one. Until the storm, there was very little I had not seen at least ten times over. Saruman is your problem no longer – nor, I think, will he ever be again."

Théoden devoutly hoped she was right. "How old are you, my lady?"

"I have lived a little over ten thousand years in Middle-Earth," she said. "Give or take a century or two. When you live as long as an Elf, it is somewhat easy to lose track."

Théoden stared at her. He knew the Elves were more or less immortal, but to speak to one so very old…no wonder he seemed so young to her. "We must all be mere children to you."

"Yes and no," she said. "Your lives are so painfully brief to us, but you pour more into them than many of us do in a thousand years. The race of Men is unique, I think, in that you can adapt in ways neither the Eldar nor the Dwarves are capable of. You have to, or your lives would be over before they began."

"The children already have," he said. "They move about as though they were born here, and I hear them practicing the Elven tongue to one another. They at least might wholly recover from this nightmare." They might no longer truly be Rohirrim, but they would live, and with luck, they would thrive. He could wish for no more than that – that his people continue, however differently.

"Your niece had set herself a task, before the sword passed to her," Galadriel said. "She was recording the lore of your people, so that it would not be lost to time. Perhaps you could take it up in her stead."

"Perhaps I will." His people needed to remember who they were, even as they moved forward. He also needed to make certain Éomer was not over-wounded – he and his sister had been close once, and he was almost certainly cursing himself for a fool over all he had said. "Thank you, my lady. You have given me an ease of mind I did not think to find again."

* * *

The guards did not want to let Gandalf out, but there was no stopping a wizard when he had his mind set on something. He felt that everyone was spending entirely too much time being happy they were safe, and not paying nearly enough attention to the outside world. Someone had to do it, and it seemed that someone was him – whether Thranduil's guards liked it or not. If nothing else, the Ents needed warning about the Memories.

He went out the gate at sunset, and found the air still sweltering and sticky with humidity. Of course the Ents would not mind it; indeed, those he could see appeared quite happy. Treebeard himself was standing contentedly by the gate, surveying the wreck of the forest.

It had changed quite a bit. The felled trees had been cleared away, stacked into high walls that ran further than Gandalf's eye could see. Those that still stood now had better access to light and air, and if given a chance, they might well flourish. Certainly there was no more murk in Mirkwood.

"You've been busy," he said, leaning on his staff and peering up at Treebeard from beneath the brim of his hat.

"The dead cannot climb," Treebeard said simply. "Living, _hmm_, things might grow again, if the dead stay out."

Gandalf was quite certain Thranduil would have asked this favor of the Ents, had they not already done it. He wished he need not give them such ill news. "The dead are not our only problem," he sighed.

"Mmm, I know." Treebeard's bright eyes assessed him keenly. "I feel them, whatever they are. Alien and angry and comprised of pure malice. They will not enter here."

Gandalf wished he shared that certainty. He supposed he ought not have been surprised that the Ents would sense the Memories, however far away they were. "They, I think, can climb," he said.

It was difficult to tell with an Ent, but he would swear Treebeard almost smiled. "Still they, _hoom_, will not enter. They do not belong in a world of life – perhaps enough life might prove too much for them. What will happen to Erebor I cannot say, but this part of the Greenwood they will not sully."

Gandalf had his doubts, but he kept them to himself. There was no reason to destroy Treebeard's optimism yet.

* * *

Aragorn spent several days fussing – and there was no other word for it – over Arwen, before she eventually grew fed up. She was wounded to the heart, she told him (mostly gently), but he should know better than to treat her like an infant or a glass doll.

"You were out there so much longer than I," he sighed. She had lost her home, and so many of her people – something the Rohirrim could relate to, in truth. Imladris and its people had been his, too, but he had not watched them die. "I can only imagine what you endured."

"It was beyond a nightmare," she agreed, but her voice was calm. "We are here now, though, and we will heal, in time. But Estel, you cannot coddle me. If I do not face our losses now, I never will."

He took her hand in his. "I know," he said. "But sometimes I feel that your arrival was but a dream, and that I will wake to find you gone." It was not an admission he made lightly.

"I am going nowhere," she said, giving him a slight smile. "Not yet. But I can sit still no longer – let us go to my grandmother's garden." She rose, and he followed her out into the corridor, still hand-in-hand.

They were unlikely to find any solitude there, though there would at least be less of a crowd. Thranduil's halls, which had seemed vast even with the massive influx of Lothlórien's population, felt much smaller now – especially now that so many of the Lórien Elves had recovered enough to want to move about. Once everyone had settled, Aragorn predicted friction between Thranduil and the other leaders; indeed, he was surprised there had not been more already. It was no secret that Thranduil had little regard for Lady Galadriel in particular – but then, Aragorn had gathered that they had both suffered the same trauma when the Lórien Elves arrived. That would have greatly changed things.

He had not witnessed what they had been forced to do in the healing wards, but he did not need to. He knew enough of the Kinslayings to understand the enormity of it; all the more so because Galadriel had been there for the first of them. Thranduil had not, but he would have a very personal understanding of it now.

The gardens, Aragorn found, were not precisely crowded, but neither were they empty. Several of the Elves from Imladris were lying on the grass, though they could not be asleep, for their eyes were closed. Another group had found instruments, and were playing a soft tune that mingled with the babbling of the brook. Still more were at work in the vegetable patch, whispering words to encourage the plants to grow.

Far to the back were the red-haired Elf (who Aragorn had initially thought to be Thranduil's shadow), and the Lady Éowyn. Precisely what they were doing, he couldn't tell, but it appeared to involve much hopping from stone to stone, and a good deal of Rohirric cursing of such vehemence and vulgarity that he was hard-pressed not to laugh. He glanced at Arwen, who seemed as curious as he, so they went to observe.

"You have it in you to maintain your balance," the Elf – Tauriel, that was her name – said, as Éowyn pitched forward and landed on her knees with a particularly vicious oath. "You are over-thinking this."

"I'm not an Elf," Éowyn grumbled. "For you this might be as natural as breathing, but the only balance I have ever needed was enough to ride a horse."

"The boots will help, once you get the feel of them. Come, again."

Éowyn climbed back onto the rock, her face set with grim determination, ignoring her audience. Word of the sword's decision had spread swiftly – it was no wonder Tauriel was training her. However, it was patently obvious that the Elf had never trained a mortal. Aragorn knew his own advice would be of little use to Éowyn – he was far taller, and the Dúnedain were, on average, much stronger than other Men. Arwen, however, had sparred with him many a time, and had added to all he had learned from Elladan and Elrohir. She was not dressed for it at the moment, but perhaps she could be of assistance later. Her awareness of mortal limitations could be of great benefit.

Éowyn jumped again from stone to stone, her footwork unlike anything he had ever seen. Her boots really were unique – the soles thicker, with an angled tread designed to allow her to pivot. Pivot she did, trying to swing around and attack Tauriel from behind – ambitious, but also likely pointless, given Elven reflexes.

Sure enough, Tauriel turned, obviously expecting attack – but she obviously had not anticipated just what sort of attack. Rather than strike or kick, Éowyn launched herself at Tauriel, using the superior strength of her legs to knock them both off the stones.

Tauriel tried to twist out of her grasp, but Éowyn's grip was as relentless as the remoras of the Bay of Belfalas. The pair of them crashed to the grass, and though it audibly drove the breath from Éowyn, she laughed as she wheezed.

"Even Elves cannot always keep their balance," she gasped out, wiping her watering eyes on her sleeve.

Aragorn laughed. He could not help it. He had done that very thing to Elrohir, one day when his foster-brother was being exceptionally aggravating.

Arwen must have remembered it, too, for she laughed quietly as well. "Ada is wrong," she said. "We _should_ pit her against Glorfindel. I would so dearly love to see her do that to him."

"That," Tauriel said, sitting up and clawing the hair out of her face, "was a dirty trick. All the more so because it worked. However, I would not try it against the foes that await outside."

"I know," Éowyn said, still wheezing. "But that is something we Riders are taught that I think Elves might not be, as you are so much harder to kill: we must be willing and able to recognize that there may come a time when the only way to defeat an enemy is to take him into death with you."

Tauriel's expression went extremely strange. "I could tell you a story about that," she said. "Another time."

Aragorn suspected he knew what that meant, even if Éowyn did not. Tauriel's love for Thorin Oakenshield's nephew was no secret – the tale had spread even to Rivendell. To watch the one you loved die would be enough to drive anyone to a suicide charge, Man or Elf.

Éowyn sobered. "I am sorry," she said. "If there is an old wound there, I did not mean to touch it."

"I know," Tauriel said, rising. "Take up your sword – I think that is quite enough of a balance lesson for one day.' She picked up her own practice sword, giving it a few swings to loosen her shoulders. When she looked at Aragorn, however, there was mischief in her eyes. "Lord Aragorn, you are mortal," she said. "Perhaps you can teach Éowyn what I cannot. She needs to practice against taller opponents anyway, as my lord so frequently reminds me."

Éowyn looked slightly alarmed at that – a sentiment which he echoed.

"Do not be afraid to knock her down," Tauriel added. "She is stronger than you might expect, as we have both discovered these last days, and she must learn. And Éowyn – just pretend he is your brother."

A grim, almost fey light entered Éowyn's eyes, and Aragorn wondered what Éomer had said to put in there. He glanced at Arwen, but found no help – she didn't need to tell him she though the idea had merit. There was no getting out of this without offering insult to Éowyn, who did not deserve it. No matter what her own misgivings, the Rohirrim were a proud race, and that pride would not allow her to back down.

He took the sword from Tauriel, but his unease only grew when Éowyn raised her own. It was far too long for her – why would the armorers not re-forge the real weapon? They must not have been able to, or she would not be practicing with such an oversized thing.

It was not that Aragorn thought her incapable, or thought her incompetent because she was a woman. The women of the Dúnedain fought every bit as well and fiercely as their men, but they too tended to be physically stronger and more durable than the Men of other lands. No matter Éowyn's skill, he had the sheer physical strength to seriously hurt her without meaning to – but if he went easy on her, he would only insult her, and do her a disservice when she went against a real opponent.

But Tauriel would not have suggested this if she did not think Éowyn could do it – and when he brought his sword around, he knew why. Éowyn parried it with shocking force, her weapon much heavier than it looked. She held and wielded it differently than a normal blade, no doubt out of necessity, using its weight to her advantage as she actually drove him back a pace with a series of well-placed blows.

She ducked his next swing, and her parry might have broken his arm if he'd been foolish enough to strike as though she held a normal weapon.

Less surprising was the kick she aimed at his knee. He knew that the Rohirrim were trained to fight with their entire body, not just their swords or bows, and it seemed Éowyn had not been taught so much to fight as to brawl. She ducked his next two strikes, actually using his superior height and reach against him. She was too close now to hit – he was going to have to kick her.

Kick he did, but barely; she dodged and rolled before his foot could fully connect with her thigh. Bounding to her feet, she laughed.

"I am not the first of the Rohirrim you have fought, am I, my lord?"

"No," he said, a little ruefully, "you are not. Tauriel is right – you fight dirty."

"Better to fight dirty than be dead," she said, dodging backward, assessing his next move.

"Yes, but you cannot get close enough to let one of the dead or Memories bit you," Tauriel called from the sidelines. "Hitting is of little use."

"What would happen if _we_ bit _them_?" Éowyn wondered aloud, even as she ducked and parried Aragorn's next attack.

"No doubt you'd be poisoned," he said, and bit back a curse when her boot came down hard on his left foot. Instinct made him kick, using her weight as leverage to topple her over backward.

Éowyn did swear, but she was on her feet again in moments, digging her heels into the turf as she brought her monstrous weapon to bear down on him, and had he not reared backward, the blunt end of the blade might well have crushed his right hand. No, she was nowhere near as strong as he, but someone had to have started training her in ways around that some time before Tauriel had. She could not have learned so much in only a week. At this rate, the only way one of them would win would be if the other dropped of exhaustion – and there at least he knew he had the advantage. He genuinely wondered how long she could keep going as she was.

She finally yielded the fourth time she lost her footing. Her face was sheened with sweat and red from exertion, but her eyes were like stars, fierce and radiant and alive in a way that none but the Edain ever were.

"That, my lady, was well done," Aragorn said.

"More work on your balance and you will not be tipped over so easily," Tauriel added.

"Easily?" Éowyn said, in mock outrage. There was laughter in her eyes, and a moment later she gave voice to it. "_You_ spar with Lord Aragorn, and tell me how _easy_ it is."

"It is most emphatically _not_ easy," Arwen said, with a small smile.

"Are you a warrior as well, my lady?" Éowyn asked, unwilling or unable to keep the excitement from her voice. The wreck of Middle-Earth might have destroyed the lives of most who lived upon it, but for the Lady Éowyn at least, opportunities had arisen.

"I might better be called a Ranger," Arwen said, giving him a fond look. "If a party is to be sent out soon, I will go with you."

Aragorn felt the blood drain from his face.

"My brothers are still out there, Estel," she said. "I will go out each time until we find them, or they find us."

Aragorn did not ask what she would do if it were their Memories that found her, though it was on the tip of his tongue to do so. Of course Arwen would have already thought of that. He could not stop her, and he was not_ nearly_ fool enough to try; if she went, so would he.

_And Merry will go with Pippin, and Tauriel with Éowyn_… If the chain went on like that, half the population of the Woodland Realm might venture forth. Given when had happened to the refugees from Imladris, he did not think that would end well.

* * *

As it turned out, Frodo agreed with him.

The surviving Fellowship, minus Gandalf, met that night in the wine cellar. While there was little true privacy to be had, everyone else here was much too drunk to remember (or possibly even hear) what they had to say.

"Sharley told us of the Memories," Frodo said. "More than I wanted to know. Sending an army against them would only create an army of Memories, for you cannot tell what they are right off simply by looking at them. Only a small group should accompany Lady Éowyn, or half of you might die."

"A small group including me," Pippin said firmly. His sparring with Glorfindel had left him stiff, and his skin already was a fantastic patchwork of bruises in various hues, but he looked inordinately pleased with himself.

"So long as you follow orders," Legolas warned.

"Of course I will," Pippin retorted, offended. "I'd like to come back alive, you know."

His good humor did not lighten Frodo's sobriety, however. "What is it, Frodo?" Aragorn asked.

"You did not see Sharley," he said. "I know not what she is now, but once she was mortal. The Memories killed her, and she still bears the scars." He drew his fingers along his arms, across his throat and over his face. "They tried to tear her to pieces. Pippin, I wish you wouldn't go."

"I have to," Pippin said. "I know I do, though I could not say why. I'll see if I can't find some mushrooms along the way. We need food here anyway."

That they did. Even the Lembas would not last forever, and then they might wind up eating one another.

"Then be careful. We have all only just found one another again. Not so long ago, I thought I would never lay eyes on any of you ever again."

His expression was haunted, and Aragorn thought that he, like Éowyn, had actually benefited from the end of the world. The horrible burden that had been laid upon him was gone; he could stay here in safety, with no more risk to his life than any of the rest of them. For Frodo there would be no long, brutal trek through the choking fumes of Mordor, no torturous climb to the summit of Mount Doom. How many others had had their fate shifted to some better course by the storm?

The idea of his own destiny had always sat ill with him. All his life he had known he was meant to reclaim the throne of Gondor, but now there might well _be_ no Gondor – and if there was, trying to reach it would be suicide.

And that realization was strangely…freeing. He, Aragorn, was more than just the sum of his ancestors. Perhaps he might have enjoyed being king, but perhaps he might have hated it. He was a Ranger to his very bones, and if he did ever become King of anything, it would not be in the manner that had always been planned for him.

Would Arwen miss having the chance to be queen? He doubted it. In that, she was far easier to please than her father.

But then, it was not as though Elrond needed to worry about leaving her behind when he took ship. Until this was over – if it was ever truly over – no one would be reaching the Grey Havens alive. And even if they did, they would likely find all the ships had already gone. The Eldar still left in Middle Earth were here for the duration.

"We'll have to bring Bilbo something from Erebor," Pippin said, breaking through Aragorn's dark thoughts, "since he can't go himself. We ought to bring your father, Gimli."

Had Legolas been mortal, he likely would have choked on his wine. Even as it was, he coughed a little. "_No_," he said. "You forget, Pippin, my father imprisoned him here. Gloin has little reason to love the Woodland Realm, even now, and my father can be…well. Thus far we have managed to avoid war within these halls, and I would rather it stay that way. Perhaps Bilbo would like a letter-opener, or a silver belt. Anything that is not a live dwarf."

"Will you stay there when you go, Gimli?" Merry asked, swiping the last mushroom off the plate he shared with Pippin.

"I will. Being so close to home, but unable to reach it…I haven't words for how hard it has been. Once we've cleared out these Memories, it might be that travel between the lands will be safe again. However long that will take. Lad, did that Sharley woman say it was possible to kill them all?"

Frodo looked up from his goblet. "She did," he said. "It can be done, so long as nothing keeps making new ones. They cannot breed, fortunately."

"At least there is some mercy still left in this accursed world," Gimli muttered. "I only wish we knew when an expedition might be led."

"Tomorrow." Gandalf appeared from behind a rack of barrels. He looked tired, but there was a strange curiosity in his glittering eyes. Something had intrigued him, and Aragorn wanted to know what.

"We have a visitor," the wizard said, in answer to his unasked question. "All who intend to travel with us must come and meet her."

* * *

Thranduil could not say he had not been warned that he might receive otherworldly guests, but it had not been warning enough for what he found in his study.

The halfling, Frodo, had mentioned two women: one who was dead, and one who might not be. What faced him now was neither. A child it was, or looked to be: age was difficult to guess with the Edain, but Thranduil would say she was perhaps five – a little girl with long hair as pale as his own, and strangely mismatched eyes. She would have seemed unremarkable, if not for the fact that she was very obviously dead. Her strange eyes were milky and clouded, and there was a great, tearing wound along her neck that disappeared beneath the collar of her shirt. No pulse beat in her throat; no breath stirred in her lungs, and yet she was not like the other dead he had seen. Her fëa was still strong, and almost blindingly bright, and in it was an echo of what she might have been, had she lived.

"Hi," she said, giving him a small wave. "Mama sent me to tell you she sent some of us into your woods to keep the Memories out, so you can grow food and stuff." Her accent was wholly unfamiliar to him, and she sounded as though she were speaking through a throat full of gravel. "Memories don't like us, but I'm s'posed to tell you not to try to kill us, too. It's annoying, and it stings. Aelis'll help you otherwise."

She pointed, and when Thranduil turned, he found a woman who could not have been there a moment ago. She too was unquestionably dead; small even by Edain standards, she looked like what was left of a sacrifice to some dark god. So much gore streaked her that she could not possibly have any blood left in her body – yet like the child, her fëa was still secure.

"You will have to forgive Marty," she said. "She is very much her mother's child, but she speaks truth. They – and I – are here to aid you, though I cannot linger long."

There was so much to say to that that for once Thranduil had no idea where to begin. It was only a mercy no one else was near, to see him shocked to speechlessness. "How did you get into my halls?" he asked at last.

She smiled, a little dryly and a little sadly. "I go where I am needed," she said, "and now I am needed here. Sharley has sent me to scout your world, that she might have a better idea what her sister intends to do with it."

"And she could not come herself? Why does she not simply claim this sister and drag her home?" he asked, a little irritably.

"She cannot. It would not be safe."

"For her?"

"For you," Aelis said flatly. "It is bad enough the Mother has entered your world. She alone tears at the fabric of reality, without intending to – should Sharley come, it might well rip apart entirely. It is also why their father cannot fetch her – but what news I bear must be told to your companions as well. Marty, go, and do not terrorize anyone on your way."

The child actually rolled her milky eyes, and vanished through the door.

This, Thranduil was certain, was going to be the strangest council he had ever called. And after all that had happened so recently, that was truly saying something.

* * *

Yup, they've got company. Company who will make sure they can actually eat later (something aside from each other).


End file.
